Faultless
by NajwaBarlaam
Summary: When Hermione embarks on a path of revenge against Ron, she doesn't expect it to give her anything but the secure knowledge that Ron had suffered some consequences for his behavior, even if he never found out. She could never have foreseen that Draco Malfoy would be exactly what she needed. But then, who knew he had a streak of such disarming sweetness, buried under all his spite.
1. A Truly Hideous Plan

Hermione walked onto platform 9 ¾ with her head held high. She knew perfectly well that everyone was looking at her, but she ignored them with the air of someone who had better things to think about. She didn't hide from the photographers, nor did she pose for them. She simply went about her day. Inside, she seethed.

She levitated her trunk onto the Hogwarts Express and calmly boarded the train. She acknowledged the few hellos called out at her, and ignored the sea of stares and whispers. She'd endured notoriety before. True, in the past it had been for things she could be proud of, not for embarrassment, not for humiliation. Not for betrayal.

But she could cope. She had survived the war. What were heartbreak and disappointment beside that?

Survival, of course, was a relative term. She was still breathing, still moving, still had her wand. If she didn't sleep much anymore, if she woke to nightmares more often than not, if she dulled her senses as best she could when it all got to be too much . . . well, those were small prices to pay for victory.

She found an empty compartment and took a seat. She was returning for her seventh year, of course. Returning alone. She'd been furious, at first, when Harry and . . . When they had said they weren't coming back. But now, she counted it a blessing. She couldn't imagine seeing him, seeing them, every day. She needed a bit of time to lick her wounds before she pretended it didn't matter.

Forcefully, she turned her mind away from the abyss it was circling. She was entering her last year of Hogwarts. This should be a time of excitement, of joy, of exploration. She flipped open one of her school books and began reading. She had done all the reading already, of course, but there was no harm in brushing up.

She looked up when the compartment door opened. When Ginny and Dean slipped quietly inside, Hermione bit back a sigh. She wasn't in the mood for company, but it wouldn't do to be rude. Perhaps they'd be satisfied with a mere hello and go along on their merry way.

"Hey," Dean said, with a tentative smile.

Hermione returned it easily enough. "Hi, Dean. How was your summer?"

His smiled widened, relaxed. He'd been worried about his reception. "Good. A right lot better than last year, at any rate. How about you?" His face changed immediately. He obviously hadn't meant to ask. It was just one of those things that slips out.

"Ron," Ginny cut in, growling his name, "is a right bastard, and the whole family has told him so."

Hermione had to work harder to make this smile form. "I appreciate your support, but I'm alright, really. I'm just excited to start seventh year, finally." She lifted her book, hoping that they'd take the hint she wanted to read.

"How do you think it'll work?" Dean asked. Hermione was grateful that at least he'd had the sense to change the subject.

Still, she couldn't help the small sigh that escaped as she closed her book. "My understanding is that we'll be in private rooms within our house. The sizes of dormitories change based on the class size, and there's enough extra room to accommodate the few returning 8th years."

He nodded. "That's what I heard too. It'll be pretty class to have rooms to ourselves, I think."

Hermione agreed readily. She could not imagine sharing with the sixth . . . seventh year girls. She loved Ginny, of course, but the girl wasn't known for her tact. And she barely knew the rest of them. She might have had to reconsider returning, if it weren't for having a private room.

"I heard you'll have your classes with us, though," Ginny added.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, though there are a few options available only to the eighth years, if we want them."

"Oh?" Ginny asked. She seemed curious rather than jealous.

"I suppose Professor . . . I mean, Headmistress McGonagall wants there to be some way to differentiate us from you lot." She smiled slightly. "Plus, I think they're trying to take into account that all of our peers are being treated as full adults, and avoid treating us entirely as children."

"Count your blessings, that," Ginny commented. "I might be of age, now, but I'm being treated like I haven't fought in a bloody war."

Hermione offered a sympathetic smile. Her eyes drifted toward her book of their own accord. She dragged them back and found Dean watching her with amusement.

"Ginny," Dean said. "Don't you need to be up front, as head girl."

"Oh, bugger," Ginny cursed. "I forgot." She looked over at Hermione. "I tried to convince them it should be you-"

"It's fine," Hermione broke in. "Honestly. I rather like being free of responsibility."

Ginny nodded, obviously not quite believing her. "Well, I'd certainly prefer it." She rose somewhat gracelessly and made for the door. "Don't have too much fun without me," she said as she walked out.

"Never that," Dean muttered. He turned an easy smile on Hermione. "I was just going to do a bit of reading, but if you'd prefer I do it in another compartment . . ."

"No," Hermione stopped him as he began to rise. "You're fine. I was thinking of doing a bit of reading myself."

"Were you?" he teased. But true to his word, he merely flipped open a book and began reading. Hermione didn't miss the fact that it was a comic book rather than a textbook, but she appreciated the effort either way.

* * *

Hermione made her way up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, having got the password off Ginny on the train. For the first time in her life, she was consciously choosing to skip the Welcome Feast. She knew they'd planned a memorial to the fallen, an honor to the survivors. She couldn't bear either.

She found her dormitory without trouble. It was lovely. All in scarlet and gold, of course, the bed was massive, a king at least, with a down comforter and soft sheets. The walls had some hangings, but rather a lot of bare space. It would be up to Hermione to fill it. There was a beautiful old oak desk, slightly warn from use, but not the least marred. She wondered how old it was. She knew it was worth a fortune.

She set about unpacking, hanging all her clothes in the lovely cherry wardrobe. She trailed a hand down the door as she went to close it, and paused to look at herself in the mirror. She looked the same, she thought, but a little different too.

Her hair hadn't changed. It was as frizzy as always. She refused to smooth it out. It had been . . . suggested to her, that it might be more pleasant for a bloke to run his fingers through it if she did. But that wasn't at issue anymore, and this was how she looked, really. Anything else seemed just a bit false.

She studied her face. She knew it was where the difference lay, though it wasn't in anything tangible. Perhaps it was a bit thinner. She'd had nearly as much trouble eating as sleeping, over the past months. But in truth, she thought the change lay somewhere in her eyes, or the set of her mouth. Something sorrow had etched indelibly on her skin, something relief had smoothed out, to be almost invisible to any but the trained eye.

Her parents saw it. Her friends didn't.

She put the last of her possessions away and lay down. She thought perhaps this time she would fall quickly to sleep. Perhaps this time, she would wake gently in the morning, excited for classes. Perhaps this time, there wouldn't be any nightmares to drag her twisting and sweating from her sleep.

But this time was like all of the others, and she sat dressed and ready for her classes before the sun ever came up.

* * *

She ignored the whispers and stares as she made her way to her table. She spotted Dean and made a beeline for him, pretending not to notice Ginny waving to her from her seat with the other seventh years.

Hermione sat across from Dean, who smiled genuinely in welcome.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," she responded, annoyed that the sound came out half a sigh.

He looked surprisingly understanding. "We missed you last night."

She nodded slightly. "I'm sorry. I was just very tired."

"That's what I told everyone," he said. For a moment, she was unnerved by how he studied her, but then she was sure she had imagined it.

"Thanks for that," Hermione said, shaking off the feeling.

"Of course. What are friends for?"

Hermione smiled, but didn't respond. For some reason it was difficult for her to make polite conversation these days. She'd lost the knack, somehow.

Luckily, Dean didn't seem bothered by the lack. They ate companionably in silence until the post came.

Hermione had debated cancelling her subscription to the Daily Prophet, but decided it was better to know. Ignoring the stares didn't mean being ignorant to their motivation. She'd rather know what people were saying about her.

She glanced down at her paper, curtailing any possible reaction before it could reach her face. It had been at least a week since he'd been on the front page. But there he was again, red hair over long, arms around a pair of beautiful witches. She wondered witch of them he'd taken home that night. She couldn't suppress the snort. Probably both, if he could manage.

Dean looked concerned, but Hermione shook her head to avert any questions.

Hermione noted to change in volume in the hall, the change in pitch caused by a decrease in regular voices, an increase in whispers. She sensed hundreds of eyes on her, and continued about her breakfast like it was perfectly normal. The bacon turned to ash in her mouth.

She forced herself to stay for another fifteen minutes, choking down a few more bites. Then she politely excused herself and returned to her room, where she had the misfortune of seeing all those bites one more time. At least she had a private bathroom. It would have been a great deal more awkward to vomit in a shared lavatory.

Hermione cleaned herself up, feeling, as she so often did, the hurt turn to rage. She rode the violent, churning emotion all the way to her first lesson.

And - spotting Malfoy - formed a truly hideous plan.

* * *

_Author's Note: If you're waiting for me to finish Better Angels, my sincerest apologies. I promise I'm still working on it, but I got distracted for such a long time that I forgot my plan, and it's been hard to get back into the swing of it. I've got maybe a chapter done, but I'm trying to wait until it's more substantial before posting again. I don't want to post a chapter and then take ages to post the next one. Nobody likes a tease.  
_


	2. Propositions

She found him in an empty classroom. Harry had sent her the map with a note saying he thought she'd need it more than him. He hadn't alluded to anything else. It was the closest to speaking they'd come since . . .

She turned her mind away, forcing it back to the task at hand. She glanced down at herself. She probably should have taken the time to apply a bit of makeup, smooth out her hair, wear something provocative. Instead she'd jumped at her opportunity, and would have to make do with frizzy hair and a school uniform. She'd ditched the robes, at least.

He looked up when she opened the door, his sharp, pale face turning toward her. Gray eyes bore into hers as he sneered at her.

"This room is occupied, Granger. Find another."

Hermione ignored this. She walked toward him, remembering a thousand heroines in a thousand movies. She supposed she failed at whatever she was trying to convey, because he merely looked annoyed.

"Fine," he snapped, shutting his book, "I'll go."

As he rose, she gave seduction up as a lost cause and went for revenge. She understood that at least.

"I have a proposition for you," she said, turning to lean against a desk.

He paused, obviously thrown. "A proposition? If you're looking for money . . ."

She snorted. "I don't care about your bloody money, Malfoy. For this, I just need . . ." her eyes skimmed over him, "you."

He raised one pale eyebrow. "Forgive me if I need you to elaborate."

She took a step toward him and, risking a great deal, ran her hand down the front of his shirt. "You hate Ron. Ron hates you." She slipped open a button, watched his eyes narrow. She didn't know how to interpret it.

"And you want revenge," he said in a low voice.

She gave a slow nod, trailed her fingers down to the next button, flipped it open. "You don't have to worry about your reputation," she said, detesting herself for reassuring him she wouldn't sully his good name. "One of the reasons you're perfect for this, is that neither of us will ever tell."

He watched her undo the next button. "It's poor revenge, if he doesn't ever know."

She shook her head, meeting his eyes. "It's not about him; it's about me. He doesn't need to know," she said, "I'll know." She finished unbuttoning the last one. "You'll know."

She didn't bother spreading his shirt open. It really had very little to do with him as a person. It was all about him as a concept.

Her hands moved down to his trousers, but his covered hers, stilled them.

She looked up at him through veiled lashes. "You can't tell me you've never thought about it," she said in a low voice. "I've seen the way you look at me." She snapped open his pants, drew down the zipper.

"I look at you like –"

"Like you'd love to have me on my knees in front of you," she cut in, doing exactly that. She freed him from his pants and took him into her mouth. She had no idea what she was doing, but – looking up at him – decided he didn't seem to care.

His hands tangled in her hair, pulled it. She gasped.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

She shook her head. "I should have straightened it."

He looked down at her as she began again. "No," he said. "If I'm going to do this, I want it wild. I want you to look exactly like you looked every bloody time I thought about it."

She looked up at him as his fingers wound into her hair again. He was careful not to pull it. His eyes unnerved her enough that she dropped her own. His hips thrust forward. She was seconds from pulling away, deciding it wasn't worth it, when he pulled her up and pushed her forward to lean against the desk.

His hands tore at her knickers, ripped them away.

"You're sure about this," he growled, close to her ear. "I'm not interested in finding aurors on my doorstep tomorrow."

"Yes," she said, refusing to change her mind. "I'm sure."

She'd barely finished the word when he drove into her. She made a sound. Whimper was too gentle a word. She'd known it was going to hurt, she hadn't expected how much.

"Merlin, you're a virgin?" he gasped, hips continuing to piston. "Bloody . . . I can't . . . I'm sorry . . ." He drove himself into her once more on a long groan and then collapsed on top of her.

Hermione was grateful that at least it had been mercifully quick.

He dragged himself off of her, set about arranging his clothes. She followed suit, efficiently straightening her clothes without looking at him.

"You could have mentioned you were a virgin," he said. She looked up to find him dressed and watching her.

"It didn't concern you."

"As I just relieved you of it, I think it bloody well did," he argued.

She shrugged. "Well, I think this concludes our arrangement."

He just stared at her.

She turned on her heel and walked out, wondering how much she would regret acting on her anger.

* * *

The answer was, not as much as she expected. She might have preferred it hadn't been her first time, but she was practical. She had to have a first, and it did add a bit of impact to her revenge. And she couldn't argue with the fact that it made her feel better, when another picture of him surfaced, with yet another bint, the next day. She had her petty little revenge she could hold close to her heart. That was something.

She hadn't accounted for Malfoy, though. She could feel his eyes on her constantly now. She wondered if that meant it had been good for him. He certainly hadn't lasted very long, which she counted in her favor. But then, it was probably the idea of sticking it to Ron that got him off.

She shrugged off the thoughts as she entered the library. It was late, but the eighth years had special privileges.

She made her way to a table in the back and laid out her books. She was top of the class, of course, but it was early yet, and she'd never competed against the seventh years. It wouldn't do to get overconfident.

She went to go find a book Professor Flitwick had recommended. It wasn't required reading, but it was good for those students who wanted to go beyond the required. That certainly fit her.

She froze when she heard footsteps behind her. Spotting Malfoy, she stayed on her guard, but turned back to the shelves.

He walked up behind her, braced a hand on the shelf next to her.

"I've been wondering when I'd find you alone," he said, lips close to her ear.

She turned to face him. "I thought you understood our arrangement was a one off."

He actually tried a smile, and she nearly laughed. As though she could ever be charmed by Draco Malfoy. "No reason it has to be."

"Actually there are quite a lot of reasons," she responded, slipping past him. She decided to forget the book and finish studying in her room. She didn't look back at him as she left.

* * *

_Just a quick note for canon nerds. I know the books don't have them in uniforms under their robes, but it's simpler to assume it. Hopefully no one is too offended. If you are, you should probably stop reading now. Inevitably I'll mention music, and it definitely won't be accurate to whatever year it's actually meant to be, because that's a headache I'm just not willing to take on. _

_Anyway, let me know what you think so far. I've never written a Draco/Hermione fic before. It's kind of weird to adjust to._


	3. Friends

Hermione sat at the breakfast table, feeling numb. The Prophet had run a spread on Ron. It broke down all the women he'd been seen with. Hermione slotted in as one of many, a side note, an honorable mention.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Dean asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm fine," she said, forcing herself to eat another bite. Her eyes flicked over to the Slytherin table, met Draco's, held for a moment. She let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding.

She glanced back at the paper. At least she knew she'd hurt him back, even if he didn't know. At least she knew he hadn't gotten away with it cleanly. Cold comfort, but at least it was _some_ comfort.

Hermione sensed motion at the other end of the table, and spotted Ginny heading in her direction.

"On second thought," she said, "Yeah, let's head down to the lake."

He nodded and rose, walking out with her.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the thought," Hermione said, as they reached the grounds.

Dean nodded. "She means well, but she doesn't understand that not everyone wants to talk about this sort of thing."

"How come you do?" Hermione asked.

Dean shrugged. "I remember, after we broke up, that everyone wanted to cheer me up. But every time they said her name . . ."

"Yeah."

"So, I figure I can be that friend that doesn't press, and doesn't make you talk about it, and will be there if you want me to be, or go away without getting offended if you want to be alone."

Hermione smiled at him. "I'm grateful."

* * *

Draco found her that night. She sighed when she spotted him, fairly sure of what was coming.

"You know, if it worked once –" was as far as he got.

"It doesn't make a difference to me if it was once or a thousand times. I just wanted to know I returned the favor. There's no benefit to doing it again."

"Well," he smiled, "There's some benefit."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Not particularly, no."

His mouth opened, and then closed again. "See, this is why we need to do it again," he said, stepping toward her. "You can't judge me on that. It was . . . You were-" he cut himself off, obviously recognizing that he was babbling. "What I mean is, that was basically a fantasy come to life. If maybe I was a bit . . . overwhelmed." He shook his head. "And then you were a virgin, and that was unexpected, and –"

"Honestly," Hermione cut it, "I'm glad it worked out the way it did. It might have been quick, but I counted that a positive." She shrugged and turned to walk away, pretending not to notice that he looked a bit ill.

* * *

_A/N I know it's super short, but I'm posting a few chapters today. I just sometimes prefer the actual chapter breaks over the tiny line that's all I can do within a chapter. _


	4. A Unique Temptation

A week later Hermione found a book on her desk. The cover read: _An in Depth Theory of Transfiguration of Rocks and Stones. _Hermione stared at it for a long time. She was certain she hadn't taken it out of the library. Even she didn't feel any particular interest in a title like that.

Baffled, she flipped it open and found the first page had an inscription on it.

_Granger,_

_ I've spelled this so that the true text only appears to your eyes. Anyone else who reads it will actually be forced to suffer through a study of how to turn a rock into a different rock. _

_ If you read it, and you've no interest at all, I won't trouble you again. But if, in keeping with your voracious appetite for knowledge, you find yourself desirous of a more thorough comprehension of the topic and a chance to practice and master all the skills detailed within, you've only to inform me of your interest and I'd gladly undertake the journey with you._

_ You may be surprised to hear it, but I'm nearly as much a perfectionist as you are, and would happily work my way through from the first page to the last, repeating as necessary until my performance is faultless._

_ Enjoy._

Hermione flipped the book open, stared at it for a moment in horror, and then closed it again. She shoved it into a drawer in her desk and forgot about it.

* * *

Or she tried, at any rate. It was a couple of days before she gave in to the temptation to read it. A few days after that she found herself considering which bits she would actually want to try. It was just a little over a week after he'd given it to her when she sought him out.

She found him after hours. In the library, naturally.

"I can't believe you actually think giving me a book about sex will make me want to sleep with you again," she said, not bothering with the preliminaries.

"Did it work?" he asked, supremely straight-faced.

"Of course not," she responded primly, seating herself on a table in the library.

"Then what are you doing here?" he asked, watching her from a few paces away.

She straightened the sleeve of her shirt. "I'm here to correct your obvious confusion."

"Ah," he said, leaning back against a shelf. "Well then, consider me corrected."

She looked away, unsure what she'd really intended coming there.

"Just out of curiosity, why didn't it work?" he asked, still watching her.

She met his eyes, thrown by the question. "Do you really think I'm so easy to manipulate?"

He shook his head slowly. "No." He cocked his head, considering her. "But then, manipulation wasn't my intent."

She snorted. "Right."

"I won't deny that the offer, the gift itself, was self-serving. But I wasn't trying to manipulate you into it. I was just trying to appeal to your unquenchable thirst for knowledge and perfection."

"Yes, I read your note."

She almost thought he blushed, but decided it must have just been a trick of the lighting. "And really, you'll probably never have another offer like it."

"Because no one else would want to shag me?" she demanded, rising.

"Plenty of people want to shag you," he corrected quietly. Something shifted in his eyes, some flicker of consideration, of comprehension. She felt tension crawl up her arms, settle into her shoulders. "But I don't see you approaching most blokes in quite such a . . . straight forward manner as you did me. And I don't see any having the . . . courage to do the same to you."

"I wouldn't say courage is a virtue people associate with you."

His expression didn't change. "No, I don't suppose it is. But then, you've already shown me you can be ruthlessly practical about this sort of thing, and we've already determined we'll keep each other's secrets." He gave a graceful little shrug. "So I suppose I'm uniquely positioned to help you . . . study this particular subject."

"You don't think I could just ask someone else?" she said, insulted.

He shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I think you could ask nearly anyone else. You have a certain . . . unattainable quality that makes you uniquely attractive. And then, of course, your appearance at the Yule Ball inspired any number of sweaty teenage fantasies."

She blinked, opened her mouth to respond and realized she had nothing to say.

"I think you _could_ ask someone else," he repeated. "I don't think you _will_."

"And why is that?" she asked, expecting him to say something about his supposed appeal.

"Because you've had rather enough of gossip to last several lifetimes."

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but couldn't argue with his logic.

"You've left out one very important part," she said.

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"I don't like you," she responded simply.

His shoulders rose and fell, the slightest of shrugs. "And?"

"And I rather think lovers should at least be fond of each other."

"Do you?" he asked. "And have you been fond of all your lovers?"

She glared at him, saying nothing.

"I'm not suggesting we date," he pointed out. "Only that we do a bit of research. Sort of an independent study."

She sighed. "I'll think about it," she said, shoving herself off the desk.

He inclined his head. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked out.


	5. The Beginning

_Tonight. 11:00 pm. Room of Requirement._

Hermione read and reread the note that had appeared on her parchment during Potions. She had to use every ounce of her willpower not to look at him.

When Professor Slughorn approached, she quickly vanished the writing and focused on her work. Tried to focus on her work. It was difficult with her thoughts swirling.

He was awfully cocky, for someone who hadn't had a particularly good showing his first time out.

Of course, if she was being honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she had been thinking about it. He'd made the proposal that would have the best chance, that was certain. She was curious about sex, even if he wasn't her first choice of partner. And he would, at least, be discreet. Plus, the book had made her wonder about things she hadn't really considered before.

She sighed. She didn't know what she would do, come 11:00 that night. But she had the whole day to decide.

* * *

She stared at the entrance to the Room of Requirement, wondering what the hell she was doing there. Furious with herself, she turned on her heel to leave. She'd only gotten to the end of the corridor when she ran into him.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked when he spotted her.

She stared at him, unsure what to say.

"What's the harm in trying?" he asked philosophically, walking past her back toward the entrance to the hidden room.

Cursing herself for a fool, she turned to follow him. When they slipped inside the room, she stared around in shock.

"What is this?" she asked, eying the green hangings, the large four-poster, the walls lined with book shelves, and the heavy old desk.

He stared around, looking more surprised than she. "This," he said, walking to a shelf and running his fingers over the spines of some of the books, "Is my bedroom."

"You want to shag me in your bedroom? Inyour parent's house?" she asked, ready to bolt.

He shrugged. "Apparently." She could see the moment he spotted her intentions. "If you want to run, you can, of course." His words pretended neutrality while his amusement screamed that she was a coward.

"Would you like to claim again that you don't try to manipulate me?" she asked quietly.

He smiled, easing toward her. "I use the tools available to me." He backed her toward the door. "Tell me, were you thinking to pick your favorite pages, or just start from the beginning?" He planted his hands on either side of her head.

She stared up at him, heart racing. She had no idea how she had ended up in this position, what she could possibly have been thinking to show up tonight.

"Personally, I think it's always best to begin at the beginning," he said, lips descending to meet her own.


	6. Hypothetically

It was early November as Hermione sat in Dean's room, studying Defense Against the Dark Arts. They were both fairly confident in their skills, but they shared a perverse desire to prove they were better than the class below them. The class that used to be below them, and now shared almost all of their lessons. They'd put a great deal of time into studying together.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean said, setting his wand aside for the first time in more than an hour.

"Of course," Hermione responded, mimicking his move. She'd never expected to be such good friends with Dean Thomas, but he'd done a spectacular job of filling the void in her life. And, somehow, she felt closer to him than she had to Harry or Ron. He understood her, where they never really had. She was sure he saw the changes the war had wrought in her. Luckily for her, he had the decency not to comment.

"Do you think . . . Would you . . ." He paused, reconsidering his words. "If you had someone you thought of just as a friend, and they wanted more, would you . . . would you be able to consider it, if they put themselves out there like that?"

"Oh, Dean," Hermione began, no idea how to respond. "You know you're very important to me, but –"

"Oh, no," he cut in. "Not you. Not that you're not great and everything," he rushed to reassure her. "Any bloke would be lucky to have you, but I know you're not over . . . I know we're just friends. I think it's a good place for us to be."

"Oh," she said. "Ok." She released a breath.

"It's ok to be relieved," he said, smiling.

She laughed. "I really am. A bit insulted you don't see me as spectacularly sexy, but – "

He laughed. "I think you're beautiful, and lovely, and brilliant, but I've been looking somewhere else lately."

"Right," she said, "And who's this friend we were talking about?"

He stared down at his hands. "Luna," he said quietly.

"Luna?" Hermione repeated. He looked up, ready to defend his interest. Hermione's next words rendered it unnecessary. "That's wonderful!" she said.

"You think?" he asked, insecurity clear in every syllable.

"Yes," she said, leaning forward to cover his hand. "I do."

"It's just, we went through a lot together, and we really bonded. And there's something . . . amazing about her. She doesn't let other people's opinions control her. She's just . . . exactly who she is."

"And who she is is lovely," Hermione agreed. "And the pair of you are great together."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hand.

"So, how do I get her to see that?" he asked.

Hermione smiled. "How do you know she doesn't?"

"Has she said something?" he asked, sitting up straight.

Hermione laughed again. "No, but Luna does have a tendency to see through pretenses."

"Yeah," he said, smiling.

Hermione dissolved into giggles. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone so smitten. How I missed it," she shook her head, "I'll never understand."

"So, how do I broach the subject?" he asked, quick to get off the subject of being smitten.

"Just talk to her," Hermione suggested. "Some girls play games, and some girls want you to chase them, but I think Luna would appreciate honesty."

"What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if it ruins everything we have now?" He didn't say it, but Hermione could tell he was thinking of her and Ron.

She sighed. "What happened with me and Ron, that wouldn't happen to you," she assured him.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"Because you're not a cheat."

He looked down at his hands. Hermione braced herself for whatever question he was preparing to ask. "If he hadn't cheated, do you think you'd still be friends?" he asked.

Hermione exhaled slowly. It hadn't been as bad as she expected. "I can't really say, but I think so. You have to understand, it wasn't just that we broke up; it wasn't just that he wanted to be with other people. He shagged everyone he could get his hands on while we were together. Then, when we broke up, he continued on as he had been. The only thing that changed was that he stopped troubling to be discreet about it. He never even bloody apologized for any of it."

Dean stared at her. "Are you serious?"

Hermione nodded. "He just said I wasn't ready, and he was, so . . . "

"Wanker."

Hermione laughed. She was surprised she could laugh at it, but something about Dean's summation tickled her. "And that's why it would never be the same for you. Maybe you two will give it a go, and it won't work, and maybe that'll complicate your friendship, but as long as you don't betray her, I don't see anything demolishing that aspect of your relationship."

He nodded. "Thanks," he said. "I know it's not easy for you to talk about."

She smiled. "It's easier with you," she said. "You really have been a great friend."

* * *

_A/N So, believe it or not, I'm not actually a Ron hater. I just don't see Hermione being anything but loyal unless he wasn't. And, let's be honest, loyalty was never a strong suit with his character. _


	7. Going Under

She lay staring at green wall-hangings, trying to figure out what she was doing back here again. She wondered if this qualified her as a sadist. She had no business being here. With him. Again.

His hand slid down her back. "Leaving already?" he asked, tone neutral.

She had no idea how he always knew. She hadn't moved toward the door, hadn't reached for her clothes.

His mouth backtracked over the trail his hands had left. He stopped at her neck, grazed his teeth over her ear. "Stay. We'll call it a double study session."

She nearly smiled. Then she berated herself for the weakness. She didn't like him. Just because he'd turned out to be a good shag, just because he spent an absurd amount of time inside her, just because she'd begun to crave his company . . . it didn't mean she liked him.

He turned her, making the journey down the other side of her body. She let him of course, tangled her hands in his hair, urged him on.

By the time he slid back up, met her lips, and slipped inside her, she'd long since forgotten her intention to leave.

That intention didn't rear its ugly head when he collapsed on top of her, didn't reappear when he rolled off and pulled her close to him, didn't crawl back inside her as she listened to his breathing even out, felt his arm tighten around her. But it roared back into her head when she felt her eyes drift closed. She nearly listened to it, nearly climbed out of bed, nearly left. But the pull of sleep was too strong, and she let it drag her under.

* * *

She was suffocating. She couldn't breathe. It felt like she was being held underwater, like her lungs were full of cement, like an elephant had lain down on her chest.

She thrashed, trying to dislodge it, and felt it drive thousands of tiny knives into her skin. She tried to scream, but didn't have the air for it, couldn't make her lungs work.

"Granger," she heard, from a distance. She couldn't focus on it though. She was too busy choking. Maybe the cement had been poured down her throat, maybe it was filling her windpipe, her lungs, her stomach.

"Granger," she heard again, as someone took a hammer to the dried cement that had filled her, and smashed her into a thousand pieces, each one echoing pain into the next.

"Hermione," she heard, closer this time. She felt something crash into her cheek, and opened her eyes to find Malfoy looking down at her.

"Are you ok?" he asked, easing away from her as she scrambled back.

"What did you do to me?" she demanded.

"I slapped you," he said. "You wouldn't wake up. You were hurting yourself." He nodded at her arms, and she noted the nail marks – obviously caused by her own hands – slashing across her forearms. "You scratched your chest too," he said in a quiet voice.

She pulled a sheet around herself, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable.

He cleared his throat. "I know a few healing spells," he offered. "I could heal you."

She shook her head a bit frantically. "I can do it."

She was too panicked to note the speculation in his eyes. She only heard his acquiescence. She watched him move off the bed, hand over her clothes, pull on his own.

She dressed quickly, striving for as much privacy as possible. She didn't notice that he gave it to her freely.

"If you want to –"

"I've just been fulfilling your fantasies left and right, haven't I?" she snarled. "I wonder how many times you fantasized about slapping me over the years."

"That's not fair," he returned in a quiet voice.

"No?" she snapped. "It seems fair to me. Christ knows there's not a lot redeeming about you. I'm sure you'll hug this particular memory to you for years to come."

"I didn't want hurt you," he ground out through clenched teeth. "I was just trying to wake you up. Nothing else worked."

She ignored him, throwing open the door and walking out without a second glance.

* * *

_A/N That's all for today. Thanks to anyone who has reviewed or favorited. _

_Alidoisreadho: Sorry. Sometimes I prefer the fade out :)_

_Hundred: Thanks! Characterization is my favorite. I'm glad I'm doing an ok job at it._

_xoretributionox: I'm glad you agree it's possible. I debated, but there's some revenge-y history there, so i think it's not completely out of character. _


	8. Not a Bad Place To Be

Hermione stood in the Room of Requirement. She'd been there often enough that she thought she'd managed to get into the same version she and Draco entered together. She stared around at the replica of his bedroom, trying to decide what to do.

She was torn between regretting her behavior, and being relieved that she had an out. She'd been a bitch to him, there was no question, but she wasn't sure she could actually fault anything she'd said. Maybe he hadn't intended to hurt her, but she'd be shocked if he'd never thought about returning the favor she'd given him in third year.

She couldn't deny that she'd miss shagging him though. It was why she was here, after all. If she was being honest with herself, she'd admit she wanted to find something to redeem him in here, something to prove he wasn't as empty as she thought him.

Because empty was the best she could say of him. When he wasn't being cruel, or malicious, or vindictive, he was just blank. Nothing. He sneered, or he gave you a neutral face. He insulted you, or he held his tongue. She'd never seen anything kind in him.

She skimmed the titles of the books, at turns encouraged and disgusted by the topics. His library, she guessed, was exactly as one might expect a pureblood's library to be. A part of her was happy that he even had one. Ron certainly didn't. But another couldn't get past some of the subjects. Even his books were bigoted.

She paused on a thin text, without any title. She flipped it open, surprised to find it filled with drawings. She paged through them, pausing at one that was unmistakably of herself. She stared at it for a long moment, then turned back to the beginning, examining each drawing in turn.

There was nothing else for it. He must have done them. She spent a long time staring at one of the Room of Requirement, when fiendfyre burned out the room full of shelves, where the diadem had been hidden. She stared at the fire so long, she could have sworn she saw Crabbe falling into it.

She looked up as the door opened. Malfoy came in quietly, watching her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice quiet and neutral.

She looked down, closing the sketchbook. She opened her mouth, unsure what she intended to say.

"Where did you find that?" he asked, stepping toward her.

"It was in the shelves," she said, feeling defensive. "I didn't make the bloody room. If you wanted to hide something, you should have told the room."

He blinked at her. "I didn't think I needed to. I keep it hidden at home. It shouldn't have been on the shelves."

"Oh," she said, looking down at the book.

"Do you know why it might have been?" he asked, stepping closer to her.

She took a breath. "I suppose . . . I might have been looking for a reason to continue our arrangement. Some . . . evidence that you do have redeeming qualities."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Lovely," he said, sitting next to her and taking the sketchbook out of her hands.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling guilty for invading his privacy. "I didn't know you drew. I wasn't intending to snoop about your sketches."

He shook his head. "You don't even see it, do you?"

She raised her eyebrows. "See what?"

He rubbed his thumbs over the cover. "You asked the room for something redeeming about me, and all it could come up with are bloody drawings." He laughed again, a hollow sound. "The only decent thing about me is my ability to draw." He stared down at the sketchbook.

Hermione watched him, surprisingly affected by his gloom. "In your defense," she began slowly, "It _was_ a difficult request. It's not as though the room can talk. It can only show you physical things."

He didn't respond, just continued staring down at the book.

"I don't think you're completely terrible," she said. He choked out a pained laugh. "No, I mean. . . that didn't come out right. I meant, that you aren't . . . That the really terrible things, you didn't go through with them." She huffed out a breath, annoyed with herself for her inability to explain. "Harry said you wouldn't have killed Dumbledore."

He turned to stare at her. "That's your best attempt at defending my character? That I didn't _actually_ kill Dumbledore? When I tried to for months? When I poisoned wine intended for him? When I tried to give him a cursed necklace? When I let Deatheaters into the castle?"

"I'm not saying that particular episode was a good one for you. I'm just saying Harry always said you were lowering you wand when they came. That you decided not to kill him."

"That's not much of a reference."

"You also could have identified us, at your parent's house," she said. "But you didn't."

"They tortured you," he said, and she heard emotion in his voice for the first time. "And all I could manage was 'Uh, yeah, it could be them.' You consider that a mark in my _favor_?"

"Well, maybe not a mark in your favor, exactly, but at least not a mark against you," she said. "You don't exactly do a lot of nice things for people."

"No," he said, turning the sketchbook over, "I don't suppose I do."

"That is something you could change, you know," she said, "if you had a mind to."

He turned dark eyes on her.

She shrugged uncomfortably. "If it bothers you, that you're more often cruel than kind, don't be. If you've a choice between the two, choose the kind option."

"It's not that simple."

"Is it not?" she said, looking down at her hands. "I think it is. Either way there are consequences. Or at least there can be. It's just a question of whether you'd prefer to be one or the other."

"Kindness is just what the weak rename their faults."

She turned to look at him. "That sounds like something you learned by rote."

He shrugged.

"Do you want to be like your father?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"You don't know anything about my father," he responded through clenched teeth.

She nearly shrugged it off, then decided she might as well finish the conversation. She had started it, after all. "I know he's tried to kill me several times. And you never have. Do you think he was right to do it?"

His eyes flicked to hers, away. "It's not as simple as that."

"Is it not?" she asked. "It seems fairly cut and dry. He thinks, because of my birth, I deserve to be tortured, to be abused, to be murdered. He thinks I'm no better than an animal. Do you agree?"

He stared down at his book again. "I don't think he thinks that exactly," he said.

"He's said as much to me. Or nearly anyway."

"And I said you smelled like a mudblood." He looked over at her. "Which is ridiculous, of course. You don't smell any different than anyone else. And if you do, it's a good thing. It's a sort of . . ." he shook his head. Hermione was grateful he trailed off. She didn't have any particular desire to discuss how she smelled.

"You were being a bully," she said, instead. "He was trying to kill me. They're very different situations. He helped start a war to eradicate my kind. I don't think his motivations are in question." She shook her head. "But I'm not trying to argue about him. I'd just like you to answer, simply, whether you want to be like him."

He stared down at his hands for so long, Hermione nearly got up and left. "No," he said finally.

"Then don't," Hermione said. "Kindness isn't weakness, Draco. Sometimes it takes a great deal more courage to be kind than it does to be cruel."

"Courage isn't a word people tend to associate with me."

"No," she said, smiling slightly. "I don't suppose it is. Of course, the great thing about associations is they're easily changed."

"Not so easily," he responded, voice nearly inaudible.

She took the book from his hands, set it aside. "Do you think I should be killed?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said, looking up at her.

"Tortured?"

"Hermione."

"I'd like you to answer, please," she said, watching him.

"No."

"Abused?"

"No. Merlin, Granger," he said, dragging his hands through his hair. "Do you honestly think that's how I feel?"

She shrugged. "I've avoided thinking about it, because I wasn't sure. I thought you were cruel. At best . . ." She wasn't sure she should admit to the thoughts that had been swirling around in her head just before he entered the room, but – seeing his expression – decided honesty was the best course. "At best, empty."

He stared for a moment, then dropped his eyes.

"Now I think maybe empty isn't a fair assessment," she continued. "Maybe you're just very, very good at hiding what's inside you. Maybe you had to be, to please your father."

"I'm not your bloody Harry Potter," he said, looking up at her. "Don't think you can turn me into him."

She smiled slightly. "I don't. And I haven't forgotten all the hideous things you've done. But . . . the truth of the matter is that, despite being on the wrong side of a terrible war, most of those hideous things amount to little more than school boy torments. A lot of people are guilty of that. Then they grow up. You should have the opportunity to make yourself whoever you want to be."

"What makes you think you'd like who I want to be?" he asked.

She smiled slightly. "I don't know. I do know that you haven't the slightest clue who that is." She laid her hand on his cheek. "That's not a bad place to be, I think."

His eye met hers, held, and then his face shuttered. "Is this just your way of rationalizing your decision to keep shagging me?"

She laughed. "Let's not rule out the possibility."

* * *

_A/N: Really not sure how I feel about this chapter, so I'd really appreciate any feedback, good or bad.  
_


	9. Raise Your Glass

_A/N: I thought seriously about trying to actually keep this in the proper timeline, and then I thought, fuck it, anything with these two as a pair isn't cannon anyway. So I basically just have it set in 2013, which leaves me the option of introducing Draco to fun things like smart phones and iPods and interwebs that aren't dominated by chatrooms._

* * *

When the next Hogsmeade weekend rolled around, Hermione found herself with actual plans – a thing she had avoided since returning to school. She stepped through the door at precisely 4:00 pm and looked around.

"Oi!" Dean called. "Hermione. Over here."

She smiled and went to join him at the little table where he sat with Luna.

"Hello, Hermione," the blonde greeted her.

Hermione smiled. "Hi, Luna! How are you?"

"I'm lovely, of course," she answered. Hermione watched Luna's fingers lace with Dean's. "The real question is, how are you?"

"I'm very well, thanks," Hermione responded, only having to force the cheer a little bit. "Have you two been enjoying your day so far?"

"Oh, yes," Luna answered, as Dean nodded along beside her. "Dean's just lovely. We even went to examine a possible gnome stronghold," she added enthusiastically.

"Oh? Were the gnomes cooperative?" Hermione asked, attempting to keep a straight face. Dean made no such effort, however. Hermione was left with a grinning Dean in her peripheral vision as she tried to politely engage with his girlfriend.

"I'm sorry to say, no." Luna glanced over at Dean and smiled. "Dean doesn't think they're anything special, but he came along to keep me company." She smiled as though this were the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her.

Hermione laughed. "I think Dean would keep you company of you wanted to spend the afternoon sorting through sewage."

Dean choked on his drink. "I draw the line at sewage," he said, coughing.

Luna looked baffled. "What's sewage?" she asked.

"Wastewater," Hermione explained. "You know, the water that gets flushed down the toilet."

"Oh," Luna didn't find this particularly illuminating. "Why would I want to sort through that?"

Hermione laughed. "You wouldn't, but despite his protests, I'm not even sure that would hinder Dean's devotion," she explained in a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, I need a drink. Does anyone want anything?"

They both shook their heads, so Hermione made her way to the bar on her own.

"Well, we haven't seen you in here in a while," Madam Rosmerta greeted, spotting her. "Not since your sixth year, I believe." Her smile fell for a moment, as she remembered the events of that year. Hermione felt a swell of guilt, knowing she was currently shagging the person who had put the nauseated look on the barmaid's face. "Well, I suppose you were quite busy last year, what, playing the hero and defeating You-Know-Who," Madam Rosmerta continued with considerable poise.

"That was Harry," Hermione replied modestly. "I just went along for the ride."

"I'm sure you did more than that, but I won't press you. What'll you have?" she asked. "Mind, you're drinking on the house."

"Oh, no. That's not necessary-"

"I won't hear a word of it," the barmaid said, cutting her off. "Just tell me what you'd like."

Hermione sighed. "Mead, then, I suppose. Thank you, Madam Rosmerta. It's very kind of you."

The other witch nodded and went about getting Hermione's drink. "Do you see much of Harry these days?" she asked. "I heard he's made quite an impression at the ministry."

"That's what the Prophet seems to suggest," Hermione agreed, uncomfortable with the topic. People always assumed she'd have the inside track on such knowledge, but it wasn't the case at all.

Madam Rosmerta gave Hermione an understanding look. "It puts a bloke in a difficult situation, having to balance two friends that aren't speaking anymore," she said, sliding Hermione her glass. "Give him time. He'll come around."

Hermione made a non-committal noise and thanked her for the drink. She had no interest in discussing it in a bar, full of prying eyes and attuned ears, but she knew well enough Harry had made his choice. Which was all the more painful, since Hermione had never required him to. He and Ron had already been working at the Ministry when the story broke about Ron's . . . behavior. Hermione thought it reasonable that she stopped coming around to their flat. It had never occurred to her Harry wouldn't bother to seek her out again.

She took a sip, shook off the dreary feeling, and made her way back over to her tablemates.

* * *

By the time she headed back up to the castle a few hours later, Hermione was more than a little wobbly. She'd managed to play sober long enough to convince Dean and Luna she was fine walking back on her own, but now that she had what she wanted, she realized it perhaps wasn't altogether safe. A realization she'd come to when she'd somehow found herself falling head first over a bit of shrubbery.

She picked herself up and leaned over to dust herself off, and immediately lost her balance again. She would need to remember, in the future, that mead packed a great deal more punch than butterbeer.

Seated, she did her best to brush off all the dirt that had found its way onto her. Then she rose, and – with exceptional caution – repeated the process with her legs and backside. She thought she did a fairly admirable job.

She started off again, cheerful for the first time in ages. She had places to go and people to see. She smiled to herself. How disturbed people would be if they knew what place she was going, and which person she intended to see.

See, of course, wasn't a particularly accurate verb for what she intended to do with him, but it was rather more polite than anything else she might call it.

She managed to get back into the castle without getting herself in any trouble, a feat she considered far more minor than it actually was. Then again, she was of age, so perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if she was caught in her current state.

She headed straight for the Room of Requirement, and was delighted to find that her intended companion was already waiting for her. He was sitting up in bed, leaning back against the headboard, with his legs stretched out.

"Hello," she said, and strolled seductively over to him. He raised an eyebrow, a gesture entirely insufficient to convey his amusement when she crawled onto the bed and attempted to straddle him. He steadied her automatically when she began listing to the right.

"And a good evening to you," he responded, entertained. "Exactly how much butterbeer did you have tonight?" he asked, resting his hands on her hips.

"Not butterbeer," she answered. "Mead. And quite a bit," she said, leaning forward to kiss him.

He returned the kiss, but kept it light. "Ah," he said, pulling away. "That explains it."

"Explains what?" she asked, closing her teeth over his jaw.

"The sticks in your hair," he responded, fingers flexing on her hips. "Listen, Hermione, you're pretty far gone, and I don't fancy having you blame me for taking advantage of you come morning, so-"

"I'd say that's admirable," she said, cutting him off, "But I shag you on a daily basis. I don't think being a bit tipsy is likely to make me less interested." She kissed her way up his jawline, rolled her hips.

"That's a point," he agreed.

"And, I've been thinking about this for a while now," she added, nipping at his ear. "You can't deny me now. It would be cruel."

"Can't have that," he mumbled.

She smiled, knowing victory was close at hand. "All I could think, the whole time I was in the pub, was how much I wanted to be here, doing this," she pressed her mouth to his.

"Mmm . . ." she said. "Wanna know a secret?"

"Absolutely not," he said, without hesitation. "You may not blame me for shagging you, but you'd certainly blame me for getting secrets out of you."

She smiled. "It's not that kind of secret," she said, kissing him again. "I was just thinking that you're much, much better at this than Ron."

"I should hope so," he said, affronted. "It would be mortifying to discover anything else."

She eased back, grinned at him. "You're always so proper. Do you have a fun setting?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I don't understand."

She laughed very hard at that. "Do you ever let loose?"

"Perhaps part of my confusion is who this is coming from," he decided. "I don't think I've ever seen _you_ let _your _hair down, so to speak."

"I have fun!" she declared. "I have lots of fun. You have no idea." She tried to climb off the bed in one move and nearly face planted again. He caught her just in time. "Thanks," she said. "Now come on," she demanded trying to drag him up.

"Come where?" he asked.

"To have fun. We're going to sing and dance, like it's 1999," she said, singing the last part and throwing her head around in an odd parody of dancing.

He stared at her. "As fun as that sounds," he began, and she rolled her eyes, "I think perhaps I should get us something to eat. Are you hungry?"

"Yes!" she turned in a circle, dancing entirely forgotten. "Oh my God, yes. I hadn't even _noticed_. Will you really go and get us something to eat?"

"I will," he said, kissing her on the cheek and easing her onto the bed. "But only if you promise not to fall down while I'm gone. Which means you need to just sit here, like a good girl."

Hermione kissed him in response, and he must have taken it as a yes, because he turned and walked out the door afterwards.

As soon as he was gone, she sprang up. She knew how to have fun, she thought. She burst into dance, with no apparent music behind it. After a few moments, a song took root in her head, and she began singing it. She grabbed a statue off of his desk and held it like a microphone.

When he reappeared, she was mid-chorus. "_So raise your glass if you are wrong, in all the right ways, all my underdogs-"_

"I see your promises are meaningless," he commented as he came in.

She spun in a circle, tilting enough to have to back into a wall to catch her balance. "I'm drunk. Promises are always meaningless when you're drunk. And," she added, pointing at him with his statue, "I didn't actually promise. I just kissed you." Then she returned to her song.

"_We will never be, never be anything but loud. And nitty gritty, dirty little freaks. SO COME ON AND RAISE YOUR GLASS," _she continued singing, pairing actions with the words. Perhaps the glass she was raising was invisible, but it needed to be done all the same.

He watched her for a few moments, smiling slightly. "What sort of song is that?" he asked eventually.

She turned and smiled at him. "A muggle one. It's one of my favorites at the moment. Very catchy."

"Hmm . . ." he said. "Here," he added, offering her a potion. "It'll keep you from having a head in the morning."

Her eyes widened and she backed slowly away, arms raised in defense.

He smiled again, this one the expression of the resigned caretaker. "A headache. I promise your head will be entirely intact."

He held the potion out to her again. She stared at it, and then looked up at his eyes. "Can I trust you?" she asked.

"Do you really think I'm going to poison you?" he responded disdainfully.

She kept her eyes on his. "Just say yes," she said.

"Yes," he said, bringing his left hand up to rest on her cheek. "You can trust me."

She put her mouth on the potion bottle, and let him pour it in.

"Is it going to sober me up right now?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I thought you were rather enjoying your night."

She grinned. "I am, in fact," she said, turning in a circle. "What food did you bring me?" she asked with a grin.

"Well, it was _nearly_ a bit of stale bread and water, as the house elves don't like me very much, but I mentioned it was for you, and the menu improved considerably." He directed her toward a tray with meat, and bread, and fruit, and a bit of cake.

"Outstanding," she said, rubbing her hands together. Then she took a seat, and without standing on ceremony, began devouring the food set out for her.

He stroked a hand over her hair as she ate. "Merlin," he said. "Did you dive straight into a tree?"

"Shrub, actually," she corrected between bites. "I'm not entirely clear on how it happened."

He laughed and pulled another bit of wood out of her tangled mane. "Remind me never to let you go to Hogsmeade alone again," he said, shaking his head.

"Technically," she responded, mouth full, "You don't _let_ me do anything. And I wasn't alone. I was with Dean and Luna."

"Hmm . . ." was all he said, as he continued to pick sticks and leaves out of her hair. "Oh bugger it," he groused. Then he grabbed his wand and disposed of the debris in a much more wizardly fashion.

"So," she said, having eaten her full. "Where were we?"

She turned to him and found him watching her with amusement. "As I recall, you were dancing about," he made a little circling motion with his hand, "And singing."

She rolled her eyes, rising and shoving him toward the bed. "You know that's not what I meant," she said, pushing him down onto the four-poster.

"Do I?" he asked, as she straddled him again.

"Mmmhmm," she said, leaning down to kiss him.

"You make quite an argument," he commented, helping her out of her shirt.

She laughed. "Don't I? Sometimes I find you can make your point so much better without talking at all."

* * *

_A/N Part two. I really didn't like this chapter for some reason, so any feedback would be much appreciated._


	10. Recall

She opened her eyes and stared at the familiar wall hangings. She'd never properly slept in the Room of Requirement before. The one time she had fallen asleep had ended disastrously.

She tried to remember the events of the night before, but they were a bit blurry. Testing, she moved her head slowly, lifting it up just a few inches. It felt surprisingly normal.

She rolled over to find Draco next to her, eyes sleepily focused on her.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"Fine, thanks," she said. They're eyes held, and she was sure they were both recalling their conversation from the night before.

Then she remembered what had happened before that. "Oh my God," she groaned, rolling onto her back and covering her face with her hands. "I danced and _sang_!"

He laughed. "Much to my delight. Though, your taste in music does leave rather a lot to be desired."

"Shut it," she ordered, rolling back onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. "It was a perfectly good muggle song. I'm just a rubbish singer."

"I won't insult your intelligence by disagreeing with you," he commented dryly, making her snort.

She shook her head, eyes still fixed on a spot straight above her. "That is absolutely mortifying," she said. "I cannot believe I did that."

"You also might have mentioned," he began, amusement bleeding through in every syllable, "that I'm much more talented at certain . . . endeavors than your old friend Weasley."

She choked out a laugh. "God, I'd forgotten that. Well," she said, rolling over to face him again. "That's just a basic fact. I might not have said it had I been sober, but there's no denying the truth of it. And no reason I should feel compelled to protect his pride when he demolished mine."

"None at all," he agreed easily. "I really think you should take out a full page add in the Prophet," he added, reaching out a hand to toy with a strand of her hair.

"Yeah," she mumbled. "I'm sure your family would love that."

The smile slid off his face so quickly she found herself wondering if she had imagined its presence in the first place. His hand fell away.

She sighed. "I should get going. Despite your lovely snack last night, I'm absolutely famished." She climbed out of bed, transfigured her clothes so she wasn't obviously wearing the same ones as the night before, and dressed.

"See you later," she called, as she made her way out of the room. His only response was a quiet nod.


	11. Men and Boys

Hermione walked down the corridor, eyes tracking a familiar shape. Even in her own head she was embarrassed about how much she thought about him. She told herself she was just watching to see if he'd taken her suggestion to heart – though he certainly hadn't shown any evidence of it over the weeks since their conversation. She rationalized her staring as evidence collection, rather than some sort of dewy eyed fascination.

Of course, his shoulders weren't particularly likely to perform any acts of kindness, and they had all her attention at the moment. There was something about the set of them, the way he held himself. It helped that she knew the feel of them, the planes and curves. She could just sink her teeth into-

Hermione's attention shifted as a first year crashed into another student. It looked as though the little girl had been scurrying along with half the library in her arms. She probably hadn't been able to see over the stack at all. The older girl, a fifth year Hermione recognized, huffed out a breath. She had all the markers of an impending nervous breakdown. Probably she was splintering under the pressure of O.W.L.'s.

Hermione's eyes flicked back to her original subject as he unexpectedly stepped forward. She watched as he bent and gathered the books. He held them out toward the first year, who stared at him in terror.

"Don't touch those!" The older girl ordered. She turned to Draco. "What?" she said. "Have you cursed them? Will all her hair fall out if she takes them?" The fifth year crossed her arms over her chest. "Have you thrown in a cursed book, so You Know Who can possess her?"

Hermione watched him bend down and place the neatly arranged stack on the ground again. "I was being polite," he said so quietly Hermione could barely make it out.

She watched him straighten and meet the girl's glare with a blank face. "No one needs _your_ help," the girl declared.

"My mistake," he said, and – to Hermione's surprise – inclined his head toward both girls before continuing on his way. She watched his straight-backed from disappear down the hall.

The first year looked up at the older girl. "Are they really cursed, do you think?" she asked. The older girl shrugged, mumbled something inaudible, and strode away. Hermione sighed.

"I'll have a look," Hermione said, stepping forward. "But I seriously doubt it." She cast a few revealing charms, but found nothing, of course. "They look fine to me."

The little girl stared up at Hermione with sincere eyes. "Does he really curse people's books?" she asked.

Hermione smiled slightly and shook her head. "Not that I can recall." She leaned in conspiratorially. "But it _is_ always a good idea to be on your guard when you're walking. Technically there's no magic aloud in the corridors, but I've seen my fair share of tripping jinxes."

The girl's eyes widened. "How do I watch out for them?"

Hermione laughed. "Well, _Protego_ is a shield charm," she said, demonstrating it. "It might help."

A life-sized bobble-head replaced the first year, nodding rapidly along with Hermione's every word. She laughed. "You'll learn later. Don't worry. Most of the older kids won't bother a first year, and I doubt many of your classmates have gotten the hang of magic just yet."

"So, I'm safe?" the girl asked.

"Well," Hermione said, helping the girl get the books situated in her arms again. "That depends on whether you have the sense to take only as many books as you can safely carry."

The girl reddened, and mumbled something about there being so much to learn. Hermione could remember feeling exactly the same, but she thought she'd done it with rather less innocence and rather more arrogance.

"You've time yet," was all she said, giving the girl a pat on the head and heading off to her own destination.

* * *

Draco was reading a book on the bed when Hermione arrived that night. He glanced up at her when she walked in. He looked nearly ready to say something, then shifted his attention back to his book at the last second.

Hermione dropped her bag on the floor and went to join him. She stood in front of him, drawing his attention back to her. He closed the book with an audible snap.

"If you've heard a rumor about me cursing books-" he began, irritated resignation ringing through his every word.

Hermione shook her head slowly. "Not a peep. I did, however, see you help a first year when she dropped hers."

He snorted. "And disprove your theory about being nice."

"Really?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "That's not what I saw."

"Don't," he said, taking up his book again.

"Don't what?" she asked. She shifted forward, easing in between his legs.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, then dropped down again. "Don't try to train me like some bloody puppy. I'm not going to respond well to pats on the head when I've done something you like."

"Pats on the head," she repeated, testing the phrase out. "Hmmm . . . I wouldn't say that's what I was intending." He took a breath, and she knew he meant to say something, but she merely bulldozed over him. "I was, however, hoping to do this." She leaned forward, brushed her lips against his. When he didn't respond, she pulled away, amused. "Ah," she said. "Pats on the head." She rolled the phrase around in her mouth. "I think I understand."

She eased off of him and flopped down, head on the pillow. He stayed where he was, sitting on the side of the bed with his book in his lap.

"Do you know," Hermione began, with the air of talking to herself more than him. "When I saw you move forward, I really wasn't sure what you were going to do. I was a bit concerned," she admitted, "to be honest." His eyes were still on his book, but she was very sure he was no longer reading. "And then you helped her with her books-"

"Tried to, more like," he cut in.

"And I thought," Hermione went on, disregarding his interruption, "Isn't that sweet?"

"I'm not," he declared, "Sweet."

"Not particularly, no," Hermione agreed easily enough. "What you are," Hermione decided, "Is sexy."

That got a reaction. He turned to look at her in surprise, and she smiled saucily back. She was delighted with the feeling.

"That's what I thought," she went on. Unable to maintain eye contact, she let her eyes shift up to the ceiling. "After the fifth year was rude to you."

"When I stood there and let her insult me?" he drawled. "I'm beginning to understand that your attraction to me may not be entirely complimentary."

Hermione laughed easily. "You don't understand," she said, sitting up. "You've always been this spoiled little boy," she said, looking up at him. She was surprised to find his attention hadn't shift back to his book, but remained firmly fixed on her. "You've always thrown tantrums, and insulted anyone who dared beat you, or was rude to you, or did really anything you disliked. This was the first time I've ever seen you let it go."

She slid closer. "Which is, I think, one of the major difference between being a boy, and being a man. Boys are selfish, and foolish, and . . . " she groped for the right words. "Petty," she decided. "Men know how to tell what's actually worth fighting for."

"Plenty of men are selfish, and foolish, and petty," he said, closing his book and setting it aside.

"Whether you're a man or not has nothing to do with your age, Draco, and everything to do with the choices you make." She eased closer, until their mouths were inches apart. "And, I'm not telling you this as a pat on the head. I just thought you might like to know why I want to jump you right now."

Her eyes dropped to his mouth just in time to watch it bow ever so slightly.

"You have," he said, leaning closer, "The absolute oddest taste."

"Well, yes," she agreed. "Hasn't that been obvious all along?"

She was the one who closed the distance between their mouths.


	12. One Thing

Hermione ducked away from a curse, cast a shield charm against another. She knew she needed to go on the offensive if she was going to win this battle. She dived across a bed and used it for cover. Sizing up her competition, she calmed her racing heart.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she nonverbally cast the spell. To her delight, Dean's knees turned to jelly and he fell to the floor. She quickly petrified him and then came out to gloat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the champion and _still_ undefeated," she said, pretending to be an announcer, "_Hermione Granger_!" She roared and hissed, as any proper audience would.

Then, being a classy sort of winner, she released Dean and helped him up.

"I almost had you," he declared, shaking his head and grinning. "I really thought I'd manage it this time."

"You nearly did," she admitted. "I barely pulled it off, and it took everything I had." She glanced down at her arm, which now sported the beginnings of a large bruise. "And I'm not without my battle scars."

He laughed. "Well, that's something then." He studied her arm for a minute. "You should try to catch Madam Pomfrey, get her to give you something for that."

Hermione shrugged it off. "I'll manage." She collected her things and turned back to him. "Thanks, as always, for the practice."

"Does me more good than you, I reckon," he said.

Hermione shook her head. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're really, really good." Recognizing a lost cause, she gave up her attempt at convincing him without much of a struggle. "Well, anyway, I'd best be off." She backed toward the door. "Have a lovely night," she said. "Don't stay out too late." She opened the door, and then paused, shooting him a cheeky grin. "And say hi to Luna for me," she added, narrowly escaping the thrown pillow as she slipped out into the hall and shut the door.

She headed straight for the room of requirement. There was no sense in swinging by her room. She might be able to ditch her bag, but then she'd have an awfully hard time explaining why she was out in the halls at night if she ran into a teacher. If she had her bag, she could claim a late night study session. The teachers absolutely looked for reasons not to get her into trouble. It was one of the few perks of being a "hero."

She strolled into the room, pausing on the threshold when she didn't see Draco on the bed. He was always there waiting for her. Well, not so much waiting as reading, but the point was, he was consistently there. Then again, maybe he'd finally realized he was shagging a mudblood and thought better of it.

Hermione closed her eyes and rolled her head down, and then over to the right, trying to dislodge the troublesome thought. She could never decide if she wasn't giving him enough credit, or if she was giving him far too much. She rolled her head back to the left and slowly opened her eyes.

And there he was, sitting at the desk. His sketchbook was in front of him, some charcoal in his hands.

"Hi," he said, gray eyes focused on her.

She smiled, a quick reflex of the mouth. "Hi."

"What happened?" he asked, letting his gaze rest on her arm for a moment.

She stared down at it as well. She'd completely forgotten about the bruise. "Oh. We were practicing Defense and I got a little carried away."

"Did Thomas do that?" he asked. His voice gave nothing away.

"No," Hermione said, shaking her head slowly. "I managed it all on my own. I decided to try flying over the bed, and then remembered I didn't have a broom, and that the floor, it turns out, is rather hard."  
He didn't smile. "Do you want help healing it?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I'll deal with it." She stared at him for a while, debating whether or not to ask the question running through her head. "What do you think of me?" she said eventually.

He raised an eyebrow. "What do I think of you?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said, walking over to sit on the desk. "What do you think of me?"

He set the charcoal aside and did a quick spell to clean his hands. When they were spotless, he let them rest on her thighs. "That's a rather broad question," he answered finally.

She shifted back slightly, and though she didn't remove his hands, he took the hint and dropped them onto his own legs instead. "Well, I know you don't mind shagging me, and that you don't think I smell bad," she paused, watching his face shutter. She wouldn't have called it open before, but now it gave absolutely nothing away. "But that's about it. And I don't think that gives me a clear enough picture, so I'd like to know what you think of me."

"We've had this conversation already, Hermione," he said, sounding tired. "You know I don't think muggleborns should be killed."

She leaned forward, drawing his eyes toward her own. "I wasn't talking about anything that drastic. I just want to know what you think of me."

He gave himself the space of a breath. "Is this you fishing for compliments, or trying to figure out how prejudiced I am?" he asked. "Only, I'd like to know how best to proceed."

She shook her head, shoving off the desk and turning to pace. "_Maybe_," she said, wrapping her arms around herself, "It's just me trying to understand how you feel about muggleborns, since I am one, and we're bloody shagging. _Maybe_ that doesn't make me an irritating, insecure girl. _Maybe_ it makes me perfectly sensible and rational."

She looked back to where he sat, hands on his knees, eyes on the ground. "Nevermind," she said. "I think I've got my answer."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," he snapped, before she could storm toward the door. "I didn't even bloody say anything. You can't get cross with me for _not_ saying anything."

"Of course I can," she shouted. "Not saying anything isn't giving the right answer; it's avoiding giving the wrong one."

"Or it's not having an answer," he returned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please. Don't even try that. You know perfectly well how you feel about my kind."

"No, actually I don't," he responded. "I have no idea how I feel about you're bloody kind. Do I think you stole your magic? No, of course not. That's ridiculous. Do I think it's bloody insanity for wizards to interbreed with muggles, of course. They're-" he cut off abruptly, seeing the look on her face.

"They're what?" she asked in a quiet voice.

He shook his head, rising from his seat. "They're filthy," he said finally. "They throw they're rubbish, their own _excrement_ into the streets. They're violent, and disease ridden, and imbecilic, and . . . just _filthy_. How someone like you could come from them is beyond me. But then," he added with a shrug, "You've got magic, so maybe that explains it."

She stared at him, trying to process what he had said. "Have you ever actually been around muggles?" she asked after a moment.

"I'll pass, thanks," he said, rolling his eyes.

She cocked her head, replaying his words in her mind. "What you're describing sounds more like muggles in the Middle Ages."

"And?"

"And that was hundreds of years ago, Draco," she said, stunned. "Do you really not think they've changed at all?"

He shrugged. "They haven't given me any reason to think they have."

"But you haven't seen them!" she said, frustrated. "You're just basing all this on second hand knowledge, or tenth hand for all I know."

"I know enough," he muttered. "Listen, I'm not interested in talking about this. If that was all you had in mind to do tonight . . ." he trailed off, but made the implication perfectly clear.

"I can go?" she finished for him. "God, you're an arse. And, no, actually, you don't get off that easily. You're coming with me." She grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hall, then straight back into the room with the tunnel into Hogsmeade.

"Wait, Granger," he said, pulling away.

"One thing," she said, stopping to face him. "You're going to come with me to do one thing in the muggle world. If you're still perfectly content with your ridiculously flawed understanding of muggles afterward, we never have to discuss it again. But if you don't come, I will _never_ speak to you again, let alone shag you."

He glared at her. Upon reflection, she realized giving him an ultimatum probably wasn't the best approach.

"If you're content to live in ignorance," she added with a shrug, and headed toward the portrait she knew would let her out.

"One thing," he clarified. "One."

She nodded. "One."

"Fine," he snapped, and followed her into the tunnel.


	13. Of Muggles, Wizards and Other Fun Things

From Hogsmeade she apparated them both to a vacant house near her neighborhood. She didn't mention the proximity, however.

He looked around, clearly unsurprised. The place was dirty, covered in layer upon layer of dust. It lacked anything in the way of furniture, and had a complicated relationship with rain and mold, which is to say, there was a great deal of mold caused by rain, but clearly an intent to avoid such things. At least that's how she interpreted the boarded up windows.

"Ugh," she said, annoyed that this was his first glimpse of muglledom. "Just, don't look around too much." Then she grabbed his arm and dragged him out. The house was on a little side street, which led onto a bigger road, which – in the way of things – led onto a thoroughfare. She found her way onto it without any problems and guided him down to the underground.

He showed a good deal more surprise there. The number of people alone were enough to give him pause.

"Where are we, exactly?" he asked, troubling to keep his voice quiet.

She smiled, "The London Underground. It's public transportation within the city."

"And we're here, because . . ."

"Because you agreed to do one thing with me, and this is how we get there," she explained patiently.

He looked at her sideways. "To clarify, this one thing shouldn't be the sort that puts me in danger at all."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. I'm not trying to kill you; I'm trying to show you a good time." She shook her head. "And that muggles are a great deal smarter than you think."

He made a noncommittal noise, which she chose to ignore.

"This way," she said, paying his fare and leading him through the turnstiles.

He looked at them as though they intended to steal his wallet. He seemed equally concerned for all the wallets behind him, as he turned to watch the progress of the people that followed them.

"Stop gawking," she directed, and let him onto the platform.

"I'm not gawking. I'm simply trying to understand the mad muggle inventions," he clarified.

She held back a sigh. "They're not mad. They're extremely practical. Those," she pointed to the turnstiles, "Only move if you've a token, or a card. And I expect they count the number of people who pass through them."

"Can't you just jump over them?" he asked, baffled.

"Yes, but then the police are sent after you," she answered.

"Hmmm . . ." was all he said, and Hermione chose not to engage. She knew he was being judgmental, but she didn't think this was the case on which to make her point.

At their stop, she directed him to get off. He did so without any comment, but with a great deal of bafflement.

"You wanted to show me a street?" he asked, looking around. "I'm sure it's a nice street, but I think it's rather like the street we were on before we rode on the muggle contraption."

"It's a train," she huffed. "You've been on a train before. And I didn't want to show you a _street_, we just need to walk down it to get where we're going."

He raised an eyebrow, but left it at that.

They continued down the street until they reached their destination: a movie theatre. Hermione paid for the tickets, an act that obviously disturbed her companion, and directed him into the cinema.

"Are we seeing a show?" he asked. "Because I don't particularly like them. Puppets are very . . ." he trailed off. She couldn't tell if it was because he wasn't sure what word he was looking for, or because the word he found would offend her.

"Puppets?" she repeated. "No, we're not going to see puppets." She looked away, thrown. "Why would I take you to see puppets?" She shook her head, rejecting the whole idea.

She led him to some seats in the back. "If you sit too close," she explained, "You have to crane your neck to see. It's better back a bit."

He shrugged it off, and she wondered if he was still convinced he was in for a puppet show. When the previews began, he straightened up. He'd obviously never seen anything quite like it before.

"Is this what you were trying to show me?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "No, those are previews for other films. Ours is about to start."

"What's a film?" he asked.

She smiled. "You'll see."

He kept an unpleasant sneer on his face through the first ten minutes or so, but when Gandolf explained that, "A wizard is never late; nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to," she noted that he couldn't quite keep the approval off his face.

Though he did seem a bit baffled by their laughter. Apparently he couldn't comprehend that muggles imagined wizards to have a sense of humor about themselves.

When they reached Boromir's final scene, Hermione could tell he was hooked. The moment the credits rolled, he turned to her.

"But how is that an ending?" he demanded.

She smiled. "There are two more films," she said. "We can see them another time."

He stared at her. "Another time? But, I want to know what happens! How does it end?"

"If I told you, it would ruin it," she said, leading him out of the theatre. "There are three movies. I've them all at home, but I remembered reading that this theatre was running the trilogy throughout November. I was annoyed, because I wouldn't be able to see it while I was home for Christmas."

"So we can go back for the other two?" he asked.

She smiled. "Of course, if you want." She looked at him sideways. "So, what did you think of muggles?" she asked.

"They're awfully violent, and I was sorry to see Boromir-" He broke of when she started giggling. "What?"

"You know that was all make-believe, right? I wasn't showing you a film about muggles, I was showing you _films_, which muggles invented. Just as they did cars, and spaceships, and computers."

He just looked at her, uncomprehending.

"You've heard of cars, at least, right?" she asked, nodding at the dozens in their immediate vicinity.

He nodded. "That mad flying thing Weasley brought to Hogwarts."

"Well, they're not meant to fly," she muttered. "But yes, sort of. I mean," she gestured to the street. "They're all over."

"I was trying not to look too hard," he said. "And I do seem to recall Weasley's father getting into a bit of trouble over that incident. Something about tampering with muggle inventions."

"But the movie," she persisted. "You liked it, didn't you?"

He nodded. "I guess. But I don't think it did a lot to convince me muggles aren't filthy."

She sighed. "Look around! Do you see 'excrement' on the street? Are the muggles attacking each other?" She gestured to the people nearby. "Of course not. They're no more violent, or dirty, or stupid than," she dropped her voice to a whisper, "Wizards. It's just that they don't know about you, and you don't know about them, and so you're making assumptions about them."

"I'm quite certain I read-"

"I've seen your library," she cut him off, "And I assure you nearly all the people you consider authorities on muggles had no idea what they were talking about. Wizards are afraid of muggles, and sometimes, when they find out about us, muggles are afraid of wizards. They take it in turns being the aggressors, it seems, when a little understanding would solve the problem entirely."

"You don't intend to tell them-" he began, fear clear in his voice.

"Of course not," she groaned. "I'm not a fool. But just because they can't know about us doesn't mean we have to be ignorant of them. They've a great deal more to offer than you might think."

"I appreciate a good story as much as the next person, but it's not exactly enough to overturn all the unfortunate bits."

She sighed. "It's an example of what they can manage, without magic. They've also got science, and architecture, and art." She turned to him. "You'd like the museums, I bet. They're full of art, all different sorts. They're incredible."

He didn't comment.

"It didn't work, did it?" she asked, looking down at the ground. "I haven't changed your opinion at all."

It was his turn to sigh. He surveyed the street in front of them, watched the people moving around them. "I suppose," he said, in a pained voice, "They may be a bit cleaner than I expected."

She rolled her eyes. "You're such an arse."

He shrugged. "I'd come back again, if it was to see the next one. The next _film_," he said, testing the word out.

She smiled. "And that's all you'd come back for."

"You could show me the art, I suppose, too. I wouldn't mind seeing they're idea of it. It's probably quite rudimentary, but . . ." he spread his arms, as if to say there was nothing he could do about that particular problem.

"Such an arse," she repeated, shaking her head.


	14. Sweet

A couple of weeks later, Hermione struggled to catch her breath. She was laying on top of him, sweaty and exhausted. Her arms were folded over his chest; her cheek rested on them. She let her eyes drift closed, but opened them when she heard him clear his throat. His hand stroked down her back.

"Are you planning on going home for Christmas?" he asked.

Hermione stared at the wall for several seconds. She hadn't really expected him to bring the holidays up.

"I was planning to, yes," she said.

She could feel his body shift as he nodded. "I thought as much," he said.

"Are you?" she asked, feeling it was only polite.

His chest moved in an odd parody of a shrug. "I suppose. I haven't really decided yet."

"Don't you want to see your parents?" she asked. She immediately regretted it. They didn't talk about their families.

His fingers moved in lazy circles along her back. "Not really," he said after a moment. "My father's . . . away. And my mother always wants me to go and see him."

She lifted her head, rested her chin on her arms so she could study his face. "I can't imagine that would be pleasant."

"I don't suppose so, but that's not why I refuse to go," he said.

She raised her eyebrows, silently encouraging him to continue.

He didn't look at her, but stared up at the ceiling instead. "It's his fault, really," he said after a moment. "Everything that happened to us." His fingers stilled, and his other hand came up to rest on her back as well. "It's not that I want him to suffer. I just . . . don't want to see him."

"That seems fair," she said, dropping a kiss on his chest.

"Do you say that because you mean it, or because you hate him?" he asked.

She looked up at his face, which might as well have been carved from stone, for all it was revealing. "I don't hate him, Draco. It was never about hate for me; it was about survival."

His hand rose, brushed hair out of her face. "How can you be so forgiving?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know that I am," she said.

"You're here, aren't you?" he pointed out.

"That's different," she said. "Trust me, if your father tried to shag me, I'd run full speed in the opposite direction. It might even be enough to get me on a broom."

He didn't smile. "It doesn't seem fair," he said, "That after everything I did, somehow I end up here with you."

"A lot of purebloods would consider this a terrible fate," she said, smiling slightly.

His thumb traced over her lips. "It's the best part of my day," he said. "The only thing I look forward to."

She ducked her head, blushing. "That's very sweet," she mumbled into his chest.

"Do you think," he said, when she'd settled back in, "That we could arrange a time to meet up?" he asked.

She looked up at him.

"I know it might be difficult, with you wanting to spend time with your parents, but I was thinking just for a night, so I can have something good happen over the holiday."

She rested her cheek on her hands again, turning her face toward the wall. She exhaled slowly as she debated her response.

His hands went still again. "It's alright if you don't want to," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm sure you'll have better things to do."

She closed her eyes, let out another breath. "I won't, actually. I've told my parents I'm staying here, so they'll be going to France. And I've told the school I'm going home."

"You wanted some time alone," he said, renewing his stoking.

"Something like that," she said, turning back to face him.

"It's alright," he smiled slightly. "That certainly something I can understand." He picked up a strand of her hair, twirled it around his finger. "I'll just see you when you get back."

She watched him release the curl and select another. "Actually, you and Dean are pretty much the only people whose company I don't mind."

He paused, met her eyes. "So you would like to see me?" he asked.

"It would probably be for the best," she said cheekily. "Keep me from shagging all my neighbors."

"Hmm . . . Let's not joke about that, shall we?" was his only response.

She grinned at him. "You would be the jealous type."

He looked completely unapologetic. "I'm certain no one has ever suggested I have any talent for sharing."

"Now that you mention, I don't think anyone has. I can't imagine why." She smiled brightly. "But, if you're going to come spend time with me over the holidays, you have to accept I'm going to drag you to do muggle things."

His eyes flicked to hers. "Oh?"

She nodded adamantly. "Yes."

"I saw the other two movies," he pointed out. "They were quite satisfactory."

"You mean you loved them," she teased. "And there are a great many other things you would enjoy. You just have to put yourself in my hands and trust that I won't steer you wrong."

"Hmmm . . ."

"I trusted you," she pointed out.

He raised his eyebrows. "When?"

"When you gave me an unnamed potion."

"To keep you from having a headache!"

"Yes, but how could I be sure that's really what it was?" she elaborated. "I trusted you. It's your turn to trust me."


	15. Charming

When the holiday finally arrived, Hermione and Draco had already worked out a plan. He played the same game she did, telling his mother he was staying at school, and the headmistress he was going home. When he got off the train, they both – separately – apparated to the old abandoned house they'd been to each time they saw a movie.

"That is rather handy," she said, as she looked around the old place. "I had no idea you could apparate in and out of Platform 9 ¾."

"It's not common, since children can't apparate yet, and there's always a chance of splinching someone unqualified, but my father preferred to avoid the muggle hoards," he explained. "So it's how we always did it."

"Charming," she commented. Then she thrust a piece of paper at him. "Here. Read this."

He raised his eyebrows. "What is it?"

"My address. I've cast a Secret Keeper charm on it. I'm the secret keeper. You only know about it because I'm telling you and you can't repeat it to anyone."

He stared at her. "Those are incredibly difficult – and dangerous! What were you thinking?" he demanded.

"That I didn't want my parents murdered by any angry followers of Voldemort when I brought them back," she responded without nonsense.

"Brought them back?" he asked, following her out of the old house.

She nodded. "I modified they're memories so they wouldn't remember me, and sent them away to be safe during the war."

She could feel his eyes on her, but didn't particularly want to discuss the topic anymore. "Neville's parents were tortured into insanity _after_ everyone thought Voldemort was gone the first time. I wasn't taking any chances."

"I'm surprised you're telling me," he commented.

She looked over at him. "Me, too. But then, the charm still stands. And I don't think you want Voldemort back any more than I do."

"And I would never do anything to hurt you," he added quietly.

She met his eyes and looked away. "And that," she agreed. "This way," she said. They stood in front of her house, but she knew he couldn't see it. "Think about the address you read," she ordered.

He must have done so, because he wore the surprised look of someone seeing a house appear out of nowhere.

"Wow. You really are amazing," he commented, following her inside.

She waved it away. "The ground rules are, don't answer the telephone, and try to avoid alerting the neighbors to magic."

"That shouldn't be a problem," he commented, "Since they don't even know we're here." He looked around. "This is nice," he said, clearing his throat.

"Don't say quaint," she commanded. "I will kick you if you say quaint."

He smiled. "It's just smaller than I'm used to. I'm sure it's lovely." He walked over to her television and stared at his reflection in it. "Haven't really mastered the art of the mirror, I see."

She snickered. "It's a television."

He stared at her in confusion. "The thing I'm not supposed to answer? Is it cursed?" He cocked his head. "How does it ask questions?"

She tried very, very hard not to dissolve into hysterics, and nearly managed it. "No, Draco, it's not cursed. It shows movies and TV shows."

"But this doesn't look anything like the thing at the cinema," he exclaimed.

"No," she agreed. "The cinema uses projectors. This is a different technology altogether. Here," she grabbed the remote, "See," she said, turning it on.

He jumped back when a show appeared on the screen. "Do all muggles have these?" he asked.

She nodded. "Nearly. Some don't want them."

"Why wouldn't you want one?" he asked.

She shrugged. "A lot of what's on it is complete drivel. My parents always talk about getting rid of it."

He looked at her as though she were speaking in tongues. "That," he decided, "Is pure madness."

She smiled. "Come on. I'll give you the tour." She led him through the downstairs, answering basic questions about the kitchen.

"Is this another one?" he asked, delightedly staring at the microwave.

"No," she said, doing a better job of keeping a straight face. "That's a microwave. It cooks food."

"I thought you said the cooker cooks food," he questioned, eyeing her suspiciously.

"It does. The microwave does it faster," she explained.

"Then why have a cooker at all?" he asked, studying the thing.

She considered the question. "Well, the microwave is quick, but the quality isn't as good. It has a tendency to make things a bit soggy. The cooker is really a lot better, but if you don't have time, the microwave is perfect."

She turned on the electric kettle. "Do you want tea?" she asked.

"No," he said, staring uncertainly at the kettle, the plug, and the socket.

She opened her mouth to explain, but he held up a hand to stop her. "Let's just skip that one for now. There's only so much I can take in at once."

She nodded. "Fair enough. Come on, I'll show you the upstairs while the tea boils."

He followed her up the stairs, nodding when she pointed out her parent's bedroom and their office.

"What do they do?" he asked.

"They're dentists," she said. "They fix people's teeth."

His face was so completely expressionless she was sure he was fighting off an insulting visage. "I see."

"It's a well-respected profession, actually. Muggles don't have magic, so they need dentists if they have a toothache, or crooked teeth."

"Then why did you use magic to fix yours?" he asked.

She hit him. "Arse."

"What?" he asked, hands raised in surrender. "You did use magic to change them, didn't you?"

"Yes, but you're not supposed to point it out," she said. She ignored his baffled look and led him into her bedroom. "This one's mine."

He looked around. The bedroom was simple, with light blue walls and a queen sized bed. A great deal of space was taken up with a desk, complete with a laptop and speakers for her iPod.

"This is definitely another television," he said, as though she were a teacher sure to praise him.

"Nope," she corrected. "That's a laptop."

"Meaning a television that sits on top of your lap?" he asked.

She smiled, delighted with his logic. "Close, but it's actually a computer that sits on top of your lap."

He cocked his head. "Is a computer another way to show films?" he asked.

"It can do," she agreed. "It can also play music, and access the internet."

He raised his eyebrows.

She picked it up, gathered the charger, and led him back downstairs. "I'll show you," she said.

She set her laptop on the coffee table and went to make tea. When she returned, she found him examining her telephone.

"That's the one you can't answer," she said. "It's how muggles communicate with people in another place."

"How does it work?" he asked. "Does this string connect to another one?" he suggested, tracing his finger along the cord, and following it into the wall.

"No," she said. "But, to be honest, I'm not really sure how phones work, so I'm not even going to try to explain." Then her face lit up. "But this can tell us," she said, gesturing to the computer.

"Ok," he said. He stared at it. Then he cleared his throat. "How do phones work?" he asked the computer in a clear voice.

Hermione doubled over in laughter.

"What?" he asked. "You said it could tell us."

"That's true. And, there are programs that can respond to voice commands, and even answer questions. It's just that I don't happen to have them on my computer, and the computer is off at the moment."

She pressed the power button, and watched him study it as it turned on.

"How do we ask it?" he said, in a whisper.

"It can't hear you, Draco," she whispered back. "Here," she said, logging in and opening up her homepage, which happened to be set to google. "We just type in 'Telephones.' And it should bring us to the Wikipedia article. People say it can't be trusted, but there are a lot of fail safes that keep it pretty accurate. Honestly it's probably more correct than a lot of encyclopedias." She realized by the look on his face that she might as well have been speaking Greek, for all he was getting out of it.

She found the Wikipedia entry about halfway down the page and clicked on it. "Here," she said. "It says, 'A telephone converts sound, typically and most efficiently the human voice, into electronic signals suitable for transmission via cables or other transmission media over long distances, and replays such signals simultaneously in audible form to its user.' So," she explained, pulling him toward the window, "Those," she said, pointing to the power lines, "Are the sorts of cables they mean. They transmit the sounds. We also have large towers that send out . . ." she trailed off, knowing she'd lost him a long time ago. "It doesn't really matter how it works. It's just important that it does."

"Hmm . . ." he said. "So I can write anything, and it will answer it?" he asked.

"Sort of," she said. "I mean, you have to take everything with a grain of salt, because anyone can put anything they want on the internet. So, if I typed in 'wizard' say, I'd get a lot of different results, almost all of which would be rubbish. But if I type in "The London Underground' for instance," he nodded, obviously pleased that she'd referenced something he understood, "It will produce very helpful results."

"Like what?"

"Here," she said. "Try it." She turned the computer toward him.

He used his forefingers to pick out the letters he needed. When he hit the wrong one, he frowned at the keyboard. She pointed out backspace to him, and he relaxed considerably. Then she showed him where enter was, and how the touchpad worked.

She watched him click on the first result and read over it. "So this is how you know when to catch trains, and where they go," he said.

"Mmhmm," she agreed, taking a sip of tea. "You can actually get it on your phone these days too. But we'll get into that later."

He nodded absently, but obviously wasn't paying attention to her. "How do I return to the last page?" he asked. She showed him the back arrow, and he nodded happily. "Excellent," he said.

To Hermione's surprise, he spent the next 45 minutes reading about the London Underground. When she showed him that the blue words were clickable, she was sure she'd lost him for at least the night.

She didn't mind, though. It was surprisingly entertaining to watch him discover technology.

When dinner time rolled around, she asked if he was hungry. He grunted something she took to mean no, so she set about making herself something simple. She ended up just heating up a can of chicken soup and pairing it with crackers. She took it out to the living room to eat it, and he stole half of it without comment.

She stared at her sadly reduced portion. "I offered you food, you know," she said.

"Yes," he agreed without looking away from the screen. "Thanks. It was good."

She shook her head and finished her food. Then she washed up, and told him she was going to bed. He barely reacted. She decided he could come find her if he ever decided to go to bed, or he could fend for himself.

Apparently he chose a third option, which was not sleeping at all. When she came down the next morning, he didn't seem to have moved.

"Draco," she said, "Have you been up all night?"

"What? No. I'll go to bed in a minute," he said. Then he mumbled something about e-mail. "Did you know muggles have a sort of _electronic mail _that lets them send letters instantly."

"Yes, Draco. I did. I have e-mail, as does everyone I know in the muggle world," she said, starting toward the kitchen.

"Really? Can you show me?" he asked, rising as though to follow her. He paused halfway up, clearly unwilling to leave the laptop.

She sighed. "Come into the kitchen, Draco. And leave the computer," she added sternly, when she saw him bend to pick it up.

"But it _is_ portable," he pointed out.

"And you've somehow gone from a novice to an addict in a matter of hours. Leave it, eat a real meal, and then we can talk about e-mail."

He nodded. "Alright," he agreed, following her into the kitchen.

He blinked at her sleepily as she got out pans and dishes. Her parents didn't have a whole lot, but she simply multiplied what she wanted to use, so that she'd leave the same amount behind as she found on arrival.

When she began cooking the sausage, he watched her in consternation. "Why aren't you using a spell?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know any. I'm muggleborn, Draco. This is how I know how to cook."

"You're also the brightest witch I've ever met. I'm certain you could find a simple recipe book and learn the spells," he argued.

"I suppose I could," she conceded. "But cooking is one of those things my family likes to do together, so I don't see a reason. Perhaps when I'm on my own I'll look into it."

"Here," he said, when she went to chop some vegetables. He carefully demonstrated the wand motion and enunciated the spell. Then he cast it, and Hermione watched the knife chop vegetables on its own.

"You try with the next thing," he suggested.

She glanced at him sideways. "I would not have guessed cooking would be among your skills," she commented.

"I like cooking," he said simply, but she noted the faint color that rose to his cheeks.

She smiled at him. "Will you cook me dinner?"

He looked up, thrown by her flirty tone. "If you'd like," he said carefully.

She just shook her head at his reaction and went about whipping up a pair of omelets.

* * *

_A/N So, I feel like my little foray into Draco/Hermione may be a bit of an epic failure. I was planning to take this through people finding out and all that drama, but I don't really think I'm feeling it. I've got one or two more chapters written, but I think I might just finish out the Christmas story line and leave it at that. Would anyone feel horribly mistreated if I did so? I've crapped out on a couple of stories, and it always makes me feel like an ass, but I can't imagine anyone is much more into this than I am right now. It's just, off or something. Anyway, let me know if you'd feel super hard done if I ended it in a chapter or so, and I'll think about trying to push through. If not I'll just make the next chapter the last._


	16. Happy Christmas

Christmas morning bustled in on flurries of light snow. Hermione snuggled into the warmth of her bed, still unused to the added heat of the body next to her.

"Happy Christmas," he mumbled into her shoulder.

She smiled. "Happy Christmas." She watched the snow fall lightly outside her window, the flakes swirling in the wind. "I love snow."

"Mmm . . . I've always known you were mad," he said, pulling her closer.

"I'm not mad," she declared. "Snow is wonderful. How can you not like snow?" she demanded.

"What's to like?" he muttered. "It's just cold and wet. Maybe it's a bit pretty, but if it means you're stuck inside all winter . . ." he trailed off, and – seemingly in an effort to block the subject out of his mind – tried to burrow in between her head and her pillow.

She would not be dismissed so easily, however. "What's to like?" she parroted. "How about snowmen, and snowball fights, and snow angels?"

He opened one eye to stare at her balefully. "Do muggles honestly believe you can make people out of snow? And angels? Those are like muggle Gods right?"

She couldn't form words to respond, she was so stunned.

"And snowball fights sound like a good way to get cold and wet. I prefer to avoid those two conditions, personally," he finished, and then closed his eyes again.

"Well, that's just too bad, because I know what we're doing today," she announced, dragging him out of bed.

"Hermione," he grumbled, finding himself cold and naked in the middle of her room. "You really have gone mad, haven't you?"

"Here," she said, transfiguring his clothes into snow gear. "Put these on. They'll keep you warm and dry. She did the same for herself, and in no time at all they were walking out the door, a piece of toast each, and on their way to a nearby park.

When they arrived, she dropped her bag onto a table and immediately began gathering snow into a ball. "We'll make the snowman first," she declared.

"You mean you will," he disagreed, sitting down at the table to watch her.

She stood and faced him, hands on her hips. "No. I mean _we_." She stomped over and dragged him off the table and down to the beginnings of her snowman.

"Here," she said. "We roll it until it's big enough to make the first part of the body." She demonstrated, rolling the ball until it was the size of a small boulder. "Now," she said, "We make the next segment, which is in between this one and the head."

He nodded, watching her roll the second ball around.

"You could make the head, if you wanted," she suggested.

He shrugged and began gathering snow and molding it into a head. He packed it tight and tried carving out snow, so that the eyes were clear, and the nose and mouth protruded. He was just putting the finishing touches on the ears when he looked up to find her watching him.

"Show off," she teased. Then she rolled a ball around until it was roughly the size of a head and thumped it down on top of the other two. "Snowmen aren't supposed to look like real people," she explained. "They're supposed to look like snowmen." She mumbled something about being unable to believe he'd never even seen one.

She grabbed a scarf and some buttons out of her bag, and decorated the snowman with them. "See?"

"I think my head was better," he decided, after some serious consideration.

"Definitely," she agreed, kissing him lightly. "But, that's a whole different thing. That's snow sculpture. You're welcome to do that too, but first we need to finish your lesson for today."

He smiled slightly. "Of course," he said, gesturing for her to continue.

"Next on the list," she decided, "Are snow angels. First, we," she spread her arms and flopped back into the snow, electing to show rather than tell. "Come on," she urged, when he simply stood there. Sighing, he followed suit. Then she demonstrated the proper way to flap both arms and legs.

"This might be the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," he declared in an utterly dry voice.

"If that's the truth," she said, standing up to get a look at her snow angel, "It says something very sad about your life." When he rose to join her, she clapped at the sight of his snow angel. "See, it looks great," she added, bouncing just a little.

He simply shook his head. "Next is the snowball fight, right?" he asked, bending to gather a snowball.

"Nope," she said. "Next is snow sculptures. The snowball fight has to come when you're least expecting it. That's what makes it fun."

She wandered a little ways away and began molding a general outline. Then she carefully carved bits away until she had legs, and a head, and a tail. The mane was the most difficult part, really.

She looked up when he appeared next to her. "You would make a lion," he commented.

She ginned up at him. "Naturally. I thought I should leave the snake to you, since you're a novice," she teased.

He considered her sculpture. "It's actually quite good," he decided.

"I was thinking it's rather lopsided," she said, eyeing it critically.

"Well, yes," he agreed. "But I suppose I meant that it's quite good for someone who's never shown any particular aptitude for art."

She snorted. "And I suppose yours is a masterpiece. Let's see then, maestro."

He shrugged and led her over to his sculpture, which was approximately four feet long, in all. He'd crafted a dragon, wings folding in as though it had just landed. Hermione walked around it, managing to both appreciate the beauty and look for faults at the same time. It was hard to find them, though. He'd done a spectacular job, down to the last scale.

"Did you have fun?" she asked in the end.

He smiled. "I suppose so," he agreed.

She nodded. Then she leaned forward, close to one of the dragon's legs. "Oh, no," she said. "What happened here?" Then she grabbed a fistful of snow and waited for him to take the bait. When he leaned in to examine it, she dropped the snow on his head and ran for dear life, screaming with laughter.

He chased her nearly the full length of the park before she found enough cover to make a few snowballs. She got him twice more before he tagged her with one, but his went straight down the back of her neck, so she couldn't really claim the victory.

He'd also managed to get around behind her cover, which left her to flee again. This time she didn't have much of a head start, and he managed to tackle her to the ground after no more than twenty meters.

She was delighted to see that he was laughing when he did so.

"So muggle snowball fights are all about cunning and sabotage, is that it? Trickery?" he asked.

She smiled. "Sometimes."

"Hmm . . ." he said, leaning down to kiss her. "I'll have to remember that." His lips brushed against hers, and then pulled away. She opened her eyes just in time to see snow coming toward her face. She tried to roll away, but he had her, and they both new it.

"Alright, alright, you win. You are the better trickster," she conceded, wiping the snow out of her face.

"And the better sculptor," he added, dropping down onto his back next to her.

"And the better sculptor," she agreed. Then she turned and grinned at him. "But I have more fun," she added.

"Undeniably. You're also, far and away, the more admirable person," he told her. He shifted onto his side, so their eyes met. "Thank you for spending Christmas with me," he said, very seriously.

She smiled. "It's been my pleasure. Really." She hopped up. "But now I'm cold, so I want a hot bath, and for you to cook me that dinner you promised."

"I've cooked you dinner several times," he pointed out.

She ginned. "Yes, and you do it so much better than I do."

He couldn't argue with that, so he simply fell into step with her as they walked back to her house.

When they got inside, she immediately began peeling off layers. "Oh my God, I feel like I have snow everywhere," she complained. "Did you have to aim for my neck every time?"

He grinned, "No, but it was fun to hear you scream. Not such a brave Gryffindor with snow seeping down your back," he teased.

"Prat," she muttered as she walked away. "I'm going to take a bath."

"Am I not invited?" he asked.

She turned around to stare at him in surprise. "You want to take a bath with me?" she tried for some clarification.

"I want to get warm," he said easily. "Plus, anything that involves you being naked sounds like an excellent idea to me."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. But I'm putting in bubbles, and it will smell like a girl."

"I can live with that," he agreed, following her up the stairs.

And he did, quite cheerfully. He slid into the bath behind her, and made an excellent cushion. He was a great deal more comfortable to lean against than the cold, hard tub. And she told him as much.

"I'm glad I can be of service," was his only response.

"So, did you really have fun playing in the snow," she asked, settling in against him.

His hand caught hers, and he began toying with her fingers. "I did, yes. I think it probably had more to do with you having fun than with the actual snow, but I enjoyed it all the same."

When the time came to actually wash, space became a problem in the cramped tub. Shampooing her hair was no problem, but rinsing it required her to twist into some seriously awkward positions. She wouldn't have minded had she been alone, but she didn't particularly want to be flapping about with her legs in the air where he could see, so she hinted she might prefer to finish up alone.

He took his cue and got out, drying off quickly and wandering off down the hall to find clothes. She took her time washing and conditioning her hair. It gave her a few moments to think about how odd the holidays had really been.

She'd spent a lot of time with him at school, but most of it had involved shagging, or uncomfortable conversations, or basic small talk before or after shagging. This was the first time they'd really spent time together, and she was shocked at how much she enjoyed it.

The best part, she decided, was that he had such a curious mind. Everything in the muggle world was new to him, and he seemed to genuinely want to learn about every bit of it. She'd found him listening to her iPod the other day, with the laptop open to lyric sites. He'd switch between reading the lyrics and googling the words and phrases he didn't understand.

She'd nearly peed herself when she'd found him studying terms on urban dictionary. She had to explain that some of the definitions were a bit tongue in cheek.

She laughed again at the memory of showing him the entries for "boobs." By the end of it he was very clear that he couldn't take definitions on there as completely literal.

She climbed out of the bath and toweled off. Then she padded into her bedroom and pulled on some clothes. She decided on a sweater and jeans, though she did look longingly at her pajama pants for quite a while.

When she got to the kitchen, Draco was busy cooking away, and a wrapped present was on the table.

He looked over and gave her what was unmistakably a shy smile. "I wasn't sure how muggle traditions worked, so I thought I'd just go ahead and give it to you."

She stared at the package, which was quite large and flat. She thought it might be a print. "Did you get it from the museum?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No." He didn't say anything else, just turned back to the cooker.

"Thanks," she said, and turned toward the door.

He spun to look at her. "You're not even going to open it?" he asked, sounding more than a little upset.

"Oh, no. I am. I was just going to go get yours, so we could open them together," she explained.

"Oh," he said, struggling to pretend he hadn't lost his cool. "Right, then. I'll just . . . leave you to it."

She smiled and hurried up the stairs. She reappeared shortly thereafter with his packages. "Here," she said, setting them on the table for him. "Come and open presents with me!"

"I didn't realize muggles exchanged more than one gift," he said stiffly. "I'm sorry," he added, taking his seat. "I should have gotten you more."

She was confused for a moment, but it clicked eventually. "Oh, no. Those all go together," she said. "It just made more sense to wrap them separately."

He nodded and began carefully unwrapping them. She went a different route, simply tearing hers open. She was unsurprised to find a frame, but when she flipped it over, she was at a loss for words.

"It's Hogwarts," she said eventually.

He nodded. "I thought you might like it, for next year," he said.

She stared at the painting for a long time, examining the castle. It was spring, in the painting. All the leaves were green, and the flowers were blooming. The castle dominated the painting, but everything – from Hagrid's cottage to the quidditch pitch – had its place.

"It's beautiful." She looked up at him. "Did you paint it?" she asked

He gave a quick nod, and then finished opening the first of her presents. She watched him carefully, trying to decide if he really had no desire to preen over his talent. The Malfoy she had known for so long would have bragged about his skills. But then, she'd never heard him talk about art. Perhaps he was embarrassed of it.

"It's a book on art," she said. "I thought you might like it. It's sort of an overview of all the major periods and movements."

"It's great," he said, paging through it. "Thank you."

"I mean, it's no Hogwarts masterpiece that I made myself," she said, delighted when she dragged another blush out of him.

He focused on unwrapping the other two presents rather than responding to her. He recognized the sketchbook immediately, but the pencils he considered for a bit longer.

"I haven't seen you use pencils," she explained. "It seems like you're always using charcoal. Maybe it's just that you don't like pencils, but I thought it might have been one of those things muggles embraced and wizards didn't, and that you might like to try them out. If you don't like them, though, I can return them." She fully recognized that she was babbling, but couldn't seem to stop herself.

"I like them," he said. "Or, I like the idea of trying them, anyway." He set his gifts down, took her face in his hands, and kissed her soundly. "Thank you," he said.

She pressed her forehead against his. "Do you really like them?" she asked quietly. "I feel like I always think I'm getting people good gifts, but somehow I'm always falling short of the mark."

He shook his head. "They're perfect," he said. "And you really didn't need to get me anything. Coming here was gift enough."

She leaned in to kiss him, and they might have gotten distracted enough to miss dinner, but something boiled over on the cooker and brought his attention back to it.


	17. Parting

Hermione felt an odd sense of sorrow, as she packed the last of her things. Draco had already finished packing, and was cooking them a quick breakfast downstairs. She looked around her room, feeling as though she faced a permanent parting, an ending of sorts.

Something of the feel of the room had already changed, as she grew accustomed to Draco's presence in it. She wondered how it would feel, the next time she found herself here, to be in it without him.

She eyed the painting she had propped against the wall, debating how best to bring it with her. She intended to fill some of the empty space in her room at Hogwarts with it. She would have to come up with a reasonable story for how she'd gotten it, of course, before she invited anyone into her room.

She picked up her handbag, and cast an enlargement spell on the inside. Then she opened it up and slid the painting in. It made the bag rather heavy, but all in all would be less attention-grabbing than wandering about with a massive painting tucked under her arm.

She thought back to their trip to the art museum, just before Christmas.

* * *

_December 23_

_ "So, muggles keep their art in museums, rather than houses?" Draco asked as they walked toward the National Gallery. _

_ "Some of it. The masterpieces are often in museums. Sometimes they're privately owned, but the owners loan them to the museum so others can benefit from them as well," she explained. _

_ He looked surprised and maybe just a little approving of this concept. "Do they not worry they'll be tarnished?"_

_ She shook her head. "The museums take very good care of them. They're careful to preserve them, and control what can be admitted near them, and what light falls on them."_

_ They went in, and began exploring the museum. Hermione had been several times before, and acted as a sort of tour guide, explaining the paintings he was interested in._

_ He stared at Redon's Ophelia Among the Flowers for a long time. "Who's Ophelia?" he asked. At Hermione's look of surprise, he shrugged. "If he bothered to give her a name, I have to assume it has some significance."_

_ She nodded. "Yes, it does. She's from Shakespeare." At his blank look, she smiled. "I think you'd like him. He was a playwright in the seventeenth century. He's very possibly the best writer of all time. In English, I mean."_

_ "And this was one of his characters?" he asked, gesturing to the painting._

_ Hermione nodded. "She . . ." she trailed off, considering him. "Do you know, I don't think I'll tell you. I've the play at home, and it's better to just read it for yourself."_

_ To her surprise, he simply accepted her statement and moved along to the next painting. _

* * *

Hermione smiled at the memory. She thought she'd done quite a good job of convincing him muggles were a great deal more intelligent and talented than he'd ever thought. He'd been quite interested in the book she had given him, and he had talked quite a lot about getting himself a laptop. He had been tragically disappointed to hear it wouldn't work at Hogwarts.

She took one last look around the room to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, levitated her bags, and headed downstairs.

They ate breakfast quickly, talking very little. She thought he felt the sense of parting even more strongly than she did. She caught him looking around, as though preserving in his memory every detail of the house.

Hermione washed up as he took one last walk through the house, to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. Then, as they had agreed, he apparated out before her. Their goodbye was a simple kiss, just a press of lips. It would be foolish to make more of it, when they'd see each other again that same night.

After he departed, she did one more sweep, to ensure everything was as it had been when they arrived. It wouldn't do for her parents to find anything out of place. They were angry enough with her for her actions during the war. She couldn't imagine how furious they'd be to find her lying now, without even a good reason to justify it.

She glanced around, wondered once more if she would ever stand in the house again without feeling his presence, and apparated to Platform 9 ¾.

* * *

_ December 23 _

_ "So," Hermione asked. "Do you still think muggle art is 'rather rudimentary'?"_

_ He looked over at a painting and shook his head. "I won't pretend I appreciate all of it, but there's no question it's . . . " he trailed off, but Hermione didn't fault him for it. She rather thought it a good thing he lacked the words to describe muggle art. He never failed to come up with scathing comments. His vocabulary only abandoned him when he tried for compliments._

_ She didn't notice the family moving past them as they stared at the art. She didn't notice the tall black boy stare at them in shock as she took Draco's hand and pulled him along to another section of the museum. She didn't notice his sisters ask him what was wrong, or hear him respond. Her attention was only for Draco._


	18. On Blood Traitors and Wonkery Lanks

Hermione found Dean, Luna, and Ginny all in a compartment on the train. She greeted them all with hugs and firm wishes that they had each had a happy Christmas. She found to her delight they all had.

Ginny, of course, was reluctant to talk too much about it. Hermione pressed for the first time all year. She'd considered the entire Weasley clan friends. She truly did want to know they were doing well.

"Really, Ginny, how is everyone? Has George been doing better?" she asked.

Ginny half-glanced at Dean, and must have received encouragement, because she decided to answer.

"He's doing much better. Angelina's been spending a lot of time with him, actually. And he's getting back into the joke shop. He still isn't inventing at all, but he's taking more of an interest in managing it now. Before, I think he couldn't bring himself to care what happened to it."

Hermione laid a hand over Ginny's. "How was it? Your first Christmas without him?"

"Hard," Ginny said, blinking back tears. "But we ended up telling stories about him. Him and George really, because there aren't a lot of stories with one without the other. Bill started it, and I think it was good. There's something healing in being able to remember the good things. He'd want us to focus on that."

Hermione offered her a watery smile, having teared up herself. "If there was anyone who would want to be remembered with a smile and a laugh, it was certainly Fred."

Ginny smiled back, and then visibly gathered herself. "But tell us about your Christmas. Did you do anything fun?"

"Yeah," Dean tossed in. "What did you get up to this Christmas?"

Hermione shrugged. "Oh, nothing much. Mostly I was a real bore."

"Oh?" Dean said. Hermione gave him a baffled look. Something in his tone seemed more than conversational, more than curious.

"Yes," she said. "I was a bit of a homebody, really. The most exciting thing I managed was building a snowman."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said. Luna agreed immediately, assuring Hermione that she may well have stumbled upon unknown wonders without even realizing it.

Hermione laughed, shaking off her feeling of disquiet. "I hope not. I think I've had quite enough of excitement for one lifetime."

* * *

The four of them chatted companionably throughout the train ride, and shared a carriage up to the castle. Hermione was distracted momentarily when she saw Draco being pulled aside by Professor McGonagall.

"Everything alright?" Dean asked, studying her.

Hermione smiled. "Of course."

Luna glanced in Draco's direction. "It makes a person wonder, doesn't it? He's been very odd this year."

"He's been Malfoy," Ginny declared, dismissing the topic altogether.

"Has he?" Luna said. "I've wondered a bit if he hasn't been taken over by a Wonerky Lank."

Hermione and Ginny turned similarly baffled expressions on the blond.

"Well, he has been acting rather out of character," Luna explained. "Do you know, he bumped into me just before break, and he _apologized_. It was one of the odder experiences I've had."

Ginny laughed. "That is shocking. I'll have to look into your Wonerky Lank theory."

"Whatever he might pretend," Dean said, glancing at the girls, "He's still the same person who helped keep Luna locked in a dungeon."

"Oh, no," Luna said. "That isn't very fair at all. I don't think he was any happier with the arrangement than I was," she said.

Ginny snorted. "Probably didn't like having a blood traitor in his house."

"No," Luna said dreamily. "He seemed nearly as terrified as we were. And at least we almost never had to see Voldermort. When Draco did have to come down, his wand shook like a leaf. Sometimes I thought I could have wrestled it away from him, but it seemed rather a poor choice, when it would only lead me to You-Know-Who, so I always decided against it."

None of them really knew what to say to that. Hermione saw Dean take Luna's hand and bring it up to his lips. She glanced away, feeling like an intruder.

They continued into the castle, and made for their dormitories. Hermione went in hers and dove straight for her trunk, pulling out the Marauders Map. She spotted Draco's location immediately. He was in the Headmistress' Office. Hermione wouldn't have worried over much about it, but the third dot in the office nearly made her heart stop.

What was Narcissa Malfoy doing at Hogwarts?


	19. The Lost Art of Eavesdropping

Hermione tried to think of some way she could find out what was going on in the headmistress' office. Eventually she settled for throwing a bookbag over her shoulder and hurrying down to lurk outside the doors. What she wouldn't give for Harry's cloak, she thought, as she readied excuses for her presence in her head, and prayed she'd be able to overhear something from her pathetic hiding place just around the corner. She wasn't disappointed. After no more than ten minutes, Narcissa Malfoy erupted into the corridor.

"Do not argue with me, Draco," she snapped. "We are leaving this instant." She threw a venomous look at Professor McGonagall, who followed behind them. "And you can be certain I will be complaining to the board."

"You have nothing to complain about, Mother," Draco responded in a quiet voice. "I'm of age."

"That means nothing," she said. "This school is responsible for your safety when you're not at home, and _they don't even know where you were_."

"I signed myself up as going home. Technically, _you_ were responsible for my safety, and _you_ didn't know where I was," he countered calmly.

Hermione held her breath. She didn't think pointing that out was necessarily the best course of action in this moment.

Narcissa drew an injured breath. "I most certainly did not," she responded. "And I can tell you Draco, I have never been so furious with you. We will discuss where you were, and what an appropriate punishment is for you behavior, but not until we return home."

"I have no intention of going home," he said. Again, Hermione was surprised at how calm he sounded.

"Draco-"

"And I don't think you want to discuss this in the middle of a corridor," he added. "If you would like continue this-"

"There is _nothing_ to discuss," she hissed. "We're leaving-"

"No, Mother," he said. "You may be. I am not. We've already been through this. I intend to finish my education. And, I'm sorry, but you've rather lost the moral high ground through your own decisions. I have no desire to hear you belabor the faults of mine."

She made a sound as though she had been slapped. "What happened last year was nobody's wish," she began.

Hermione noticed they were beginning to attract a rather large audience. She subtly moved into its ranks and hoped no one had noticed her lurking presence.

"Do you mean starting the war, or losing it?" he asked.

Hermione, now in a position to see, as well as hear, watched the blood drain from Narcissa Malfoy's face.

"How dare you!"

"How dare I?" he returned, and for the first time Hermione heard anger in his voice. "You come here demanding that I come home, furious that the school didn't take proper care of me. I think you've forgotten the _care_ I received in your home."

"Draco," and her voice broke. "You know we've only ever wanted what's best for you."

He inclined his head. Hermione thought she could almost see him drawing his emotions back in. "I do," he said. "I just don't believe you retain the right to have a say in what that is," he said. "I am not," and his voice left no room for argument, "going home. I will remain at Hogwarts, and finish my education. With _actual_ teachers, not quivering vermin scurrying to do Voldemort's bidding and delighting in the misery and carnage he caused. And if I chose to take my vacations away from the school, in any destination I desire, I will do exactly that."

His mother simply stared at him, at a complete loss for words. Hermione thought Mrs. Malfoy might have been weeping had she not been so stunned.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat uncomfortably. "If you wish to remain at the school," she said, "we require that our pupils inform us of their vacation plans."

"Do you?" he asked. "I don't recall ever being specific about them in the past."

The professor looked taken aback. "Well, we certainly don't allow students to lie to us about it."

He gave a short bow. "Of course. In the future I'll simply say I'll be leaving school grounds. I apologize for misleading you. I simply wished to avoid a scene."

"Well," Professor McGonagall said, "I will look into the exact nature of the rule, to see what sort of an infraction you've committed, but I think you should expect _some_ consequences."

He gave another short bow, and Hermione wondered if he turned formal in arguments, or when dealing with authority. "Of course," he said.

He turned to his mother. "I think we've said rather enough for the time being, don't you? If you'd like," he continued, before she could formulate a response, "I'll escort you off the grounds." He took her elbow and steered her down the hallway.

Hermione risked a glance at McGonagall and found her looking more surprised than she could ever remember seeing her.


	20. Habits of a Lifetime

It seldom happened that Hermione got to the Room of Requirement before Draco, but in this case, she wasn't surprised. She looked around and smiled as an idea formed. She rushed off to her dormitory and grabbed her handbag, lugging it back to the Room.

As soon as she walked in, she pulled the painting out of the bag and set about hanging it on the wall. By the time Draco arrived, she was lying on the bed, admiring her handiwork.

"How much of it did you see?" he asked, leaning against the door.

"All that was in the corridor," she said, giving him a sheepish smile. "I snuck down to do some eavesdropping."

He walked over and flopped down next to her. "That was unpleasant," he said, sounding depressed.

She rolled over so she could look at him. "I thought you handled it rather well."

He blinked up at the wall, and then cocked his head. "Did you put my painting up there?" he asked.

She nodded, smiling even more sheepishly. "I did."

"Just make sure you never wish it away," he said. "The room might eat it."

She laughed, and then broke off, sitting up. "Do you think it would?" she asked, concerned.

He shrugged. "It might. I could do you another, but paintings are never exactly the same."

She stared at the piece of art. "Maybe I'll put it in my dormitory after all."

He dragged her down onto the bed and rolled on top of her. "I'm glad you're here," he said, dropping a kiss on her nose. "I was feeling rather raw, and in a matter of minutes you've managed to smooth it all out, just by being you," he said, kissing first one corner of her mouth, and then the other.

"Did you leave things better or worse with her, in the end?" Hermione asked, brushing the hair back from his forehead.

He laid his head on her chest, heaving out a great sigh. "Both, I suppose. She cried, which is never a thing I handle well, and I said I didn't hate her, that I just needed her to understand that it was time I made my own decisions and determined my own beliefs." He took another deep breath. "I promised to at least visit her during the next holiday," he said, with the air of a confession.

"Do you think I'll be angry about that?" Hermione asked. He lifted his head to study her face, then apparently decided he hadn't been in the best position for this particular discussion. He sat up and leaned against the wall.

"I don't know," he said. "Are you?"

She followed his lead, shifting into a sitting position. She folded her legs under her and shook her head. "Of course not. Draco, I don't want you to hate your family, or never see them again. They're your parents. Of course you love them. Of course you don't want to hurt them." She pulled her legs up and hugged her arms around them. "But I'm glad you're willing to tell her how you really feel. I wouldn't want you to pretend you agree with them, if you don't."

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. "It didn't really hit me until she was there, how angry I was about all of it. I didn't think about it, when I was at your house."

"Think about what?" Hermione asked.

"How wrong all of it was, everything I thought I knew about muggles."

Hermione rested her chin on her knees. "Defending them is the last thing I want to do, and this doesn't mean I've forgiven or forgotten anything they did, but they might not have known anymore about muggles than you did."

He nodded. "I came round to that on my walk back. I also realized that – even if I tried to convince them – I don't think they would ever change their minds."

"No," Hermione agreed quietly. "It's hard to break habits of a lifetime."

He let out a slow breath, and leaned forward to kiss her. "I'm very glad you changed mine," he said.

* * *

_A/N I'd really love to hear what people thought of the Malfoy confrontations, etc. And many thanks to everyone who reviewed and favorited chapter 16. It spurs me on to write more, which is great, because I'd really like to finish this soon._


	21. Something

Draco's confrontation with his mother was the talk of the school by breakfast the next morning. If Hermione had to guess, she'd say it was probably the talk of the school the night before, and she just hadn't been privy to the gossip.

"Did you hear?" Ginny asked, sliding in next to Hermione. "Apparently Malfoy had a massive fight with his mum in the middle of the corridor last night."

Hermione nodded. "It's all anyone is talking about," she said.

"I heard you were there," Dean threw in. "What did you think?"

Several heads turned to face her. People had been passing on second and third hand stories, and now they had the opportunity for a firsthand account. They weren't about to pass that up.

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. "I think I've been the subject of enough gossip," she said quietly. "It's put me off the pastime altogether."

Ginny looked torn between sympathy and curiosity, but Luna just patted Hermione's hand.

"We could go for a swim in the lake," the blond offered. "We might even be able to meet some merpeople."

Hermione smiled at the offer, though she had no desire to accept it. She noted that the students around them returned to their speculation at a somewhat muted volume. She didn't know if it was out of respect for her or because she'd made them feel guilty, but she was glad the din had subsided somewhat.

* * *

Draco was sitting alone in the Room of Requirement, debating exactly how cowardly it would be to spend the entire day in hiding. He could simply skip lessons. Of course, as he'd made such a production of wanting to continue his education, it wouldn't make any sense at all to follow it up by avoiding it.

He lay on the bed, looking at the blank space on the wall where his painting had sat for such a short time. Hermione had taken it back with her when she left that morning. She'd set a little alarm for herself and been off before the sun came up.

Draco wondered idly if he should consider the alarm a good sign or a bad one. On the one hand, it might mean she intended to sleep there regularly, which was all to the good. As far as he was concerned, the more time spent in her presence, the better. On the other hand, it meant she was still bound and determined to keep him a secret. He couldn't exactly blame her for that, though, given his history with literally everyone she liked and cared about.

He wondered what she would think, if she knew he was considering hiding from his problems. She wasn't the sort to do that. She faced everything head on. Her courage was one of the things he'd always admired about her.

He tried to mentally prepare himself for what he was going to face. It was nothing he hadn't dealt with before. He had faced the whispers, the staring, the feeling of being trapped in a beehive, the sinister buzzing making his skin crawl. He'd seen it first when his father was taken away to Azkaban in his fifth year.

At the time he had armored himself with righteous indignation, the sting of injustice making his hatred for Potter and Dumbledore and all the rest burn even stronger.

But then life had only gotten worse from there. Somehow the war had made his shoulders weaken under the load they bore. He'd used his last ounce of strength to force his mother to let him return to Hogwarts, and then begged whatever fates might hear him to just let him pass through unmarked.

And then Hermione had walked into the classroom he was hiding in, and blown his plans all to hell. He thought back on that first encounter, knowing now how completely out of character it had been for her. Of course, he wasn't the only one the war had weakened. Anyone with eyes could see how much it had changed her.

He rose and set about dressing, deciding the only thing for it was to put one foot in front of the other. And remind himself, whenever the walls tried to close in on him, that he would see her that night. Whatever the day brought him, the night brought him her. He just need to get through it, get past it, and he would be back here, wrapped in her warmth, surrounded by her scent, tangled in her arms.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

After a moment's deliberation, he decided to swing by the kitchens and get a bit of bread off of one of the house elves. They still gave him scraps if Hermione wasn't a factor, and he couldn't bring himself to lie and pretend it was for her. Something about using her name to get house elves to do something they didn't want to just seemed wrong.

He made quick work of the detour and munched on his old bread, keeping to back ways on his trek to class. He had no desire to face the crowds of ill-wishers until absolutely necessary. When he did reach his first lesson, he was pleasantly surprised to find his reception relatively normal. Perhaps there were a few more glares than usual, but for the most part the Slytherins just kept up their icy disgust and left it at that.

He'd slipped, of course, in their estimation during the war. His family was no longer prestigious, and suddenly all the students who had once made efforts to ingratiate themselves with him were loath to admit he existed at all. He found himself oddly grateful for the respite. Hermione may not have started changing his view on muggles until recently, but he'd hated the war and everyone associated with it long before it had ended. He just hadn't seen a way out.

By the time Draco got to potions, he was beginning to think he would escape the whole day without much damage. He slid into his usual seat, at a table by himself. Slughorn had accepted his request to work alone at the beginning of the term, taking it for ambition rather than misanthropy. The truth was, Draco just couldn't imagine having to speak to anyone in the room on a regular basis.

He scanned it now, noting the one obvious exception. He hadn't known that at the time though, and didn't think it would do at all for him to get stuck working with Hermione Granger. He had thought her a priss and a teacher's pet, and felt no guilt for either assumption. They were rather accurate, he decided, smiling to himself.

He watched her arrange her things, distracted by his musings. She wasn't always prissy, of course. She had a lovely ability to have fun, which he never would have guessed. Even with Potter and Weasley, she'd always seemed to play the prefect, chastising them for misbehavior, warning them off poor decisions. But now he knew the sound of her laugh better than he could ever have imagined. He could play it in his head at will, and it never failed to draw an echo of joy from somewhere inside him.

She wasn't such a teacher's pet anymore, either, and he found it rather concerning. He watched as Slughorn leaned down to offer a bit of instruction on the potions they were brewing. It was a long term project, and Hermione's – of course – was the best in the class. She didn't glow or preen under his attention, however, as Draco could recall her doing so many times before. He thought it took more to bring pleasure out in her these days. He wished he knew how better to manage it.

Draco returned to his own efforts at brewing, which he was pleased to note nearly mirrored Hermione's. There was no better measuring stick, for his money. He was just giving it a final stir when Slughorn swung his great body around Draco's desk to look at the result.

"Perfectly adequate," he said, before moving on.

Draco proceeded to make his notes, amused that he'd actually rated a comment that day. Slughorn made a practice of ignoring him whenever possible. He glanced around and noted several sets of eyes trained on him, as mouths moved in whispered speculation. Mixed classes were netting a great deal more attention than Slytherin ones. Probably because the Slytherins wouldn't lower themselves enough to be seen discussing him.

Draco noticed that neither Hermione nor her partner, Ginny Weasley, were engaged in the conversations going on around him. He gathered from Weasley's repeated glances that she would prefer to be, but didn't trust the reception she would receive from Hermione. He let out a slow breath, feeling a sense of calm steal over him. So Hermione wasn't pretending to hate him. That was something.


	22. Worth

Draco was heading back to the Room of Requirement, via a vast interconnecting, overly circuitous route, when he slammed straight into someone. He hadn't been on the lookout for other people, as he'd specifically chosen hallways that didn't see a great deal of traffic.

"Excuse me," he said, offering a hand to the student he'd dumped to the floor. "I didn't see you."

Dean Thomas ignored his hand and found his own way to his feet.

Draco gave him a quick nod and started off toward his destination.

"What are you playing at?" Thomas called after him.

Draco slowed and turned back. "Truly," he said, "I didn't see you. It was an accident."

"That's not what I meant," Thomas said, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. "I'm talking about Hermione. I want to know what you're playing at with her."

Draco simply stared at him. "Did she say something to you?" he asked, when he regained the use of his voice. To his knowledge, Hermione still had no desire to have anyone know anything about him. Though if she had changed her mind, he certainly wasn't going to complain. Really, it was encouraging she had told Dean.

"Of course not," Dean snapped. "Do you think she'd admit to having anything to do with you?"

"Then I'm at a loss," Draco said, pretending as though he hadn't just been kicked in the stomach with disappointment.

"I saw you, at the museum, over Christmas," Dean explained. "If you think you can play some joke-"

"I'm not playing any jokes. Do you honestly not think she's worthy of my interest in her own right?"

"_Worthy of your interest_?" Dean repeated. "You think awfully high of yourself, given that you're nothing but Deatheater scum."

"I didn't say I was worthy of her interest," Draco responded quietly. "Only that she's more than enough on her own to attract me."

"Is this some attempt to try to clean up your image?" Dean pressed.

"It would be awfully hard to do that, wouldn't it, when as you said, she'd never admit to having anything to do with me."

"Which doesn't explain how you got her to tolerate you in the first place?" Dean continued, raising his wand. "Did you do something to her?"

Draco eyed the wand, but held his ground. "If you want to know something about Hermione, I would encourage you to speak to her. You wanted to know if I had ill intentions, and the answer is no. You want to know if I've somehow tricked her into spending time with me? The answer is no. I couldn't begin to guess what she sees in me, so any further questions would be better directed at her." He inclined his head and – though it took all his courage to turn his back on a raised wand – spun on his heel and walked away.


	23. Reprieve

Draco was surprised when Hermione appeared in the Room of Requirement shortly after their last lesson. After his encounter with Thomas, he hadn't been sure he would see her that night at all. He'd been bracing himself for the possibility that she would disavow any relationship with him, that they would have already spent their last night together, without either being aware it was the last.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, with a completely lack of grace. He saw the surprise flit across her face.

"I thought you might prefer dinner in private. Should I just leave this with you then, and give you some time?" she asked, emptying the contents of her purse on the table. She'd brought him a proper feast.

"No," he said quietly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry." As seconds stretched into millennia under her examination, he debated simply pretending nothing was wrong. And then he decided she would prefer honesty. "I take it you haven't spoken with Thomas," he said.

"What happened with Dean?" she asked, cautious and concerned. He could see her playing out the possibilities in her head, and knew she feared he'd hurt her friend in some way.

"He saw us at Christmas," Draco said, deciding it was best to keep it simple and to the point.

Hermione stood exactly where she was, a statue formed of flesh and bone. Then she raised her hands and ran them over her face. "He _saw_ us? Where?"

"At the museum, apparently."

"Of course," she said, pacing away. "Dean loves art." She turned back to Draco. "What did he say, exactly? Did you confirm something was going on?"

"I don't remember either of our exact words, Hermione. I'm not a bloody pensieve."

"This is important, Draco."

"I don't know what I said, exactly. I don't think confirmation is the issue, though," he added. "He was very sure. I honestly thought for a moment you had told him."

"Of course I didn't," she snapped. "That's ridiculous. I'd have to be mad."

"Naturally," Draco said, watching her as he tried to pretend her words had no effect on him. "He said something rather similar, when I asked if you'd said anything."

She looked back at him, and he saw a frisson of guilt seep into her expression. "Draco, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," he said, cutting her off. "I know what you think of me."

"That's not-"

"You wanted to know what was said," Draco continued, moving toward the table to make a plate. He wasn't the least bit hungry, but he needed to do something. "It was rather what you would expect. He wanted to know if I was using you to forward some horrible scheme, and he was rather concerned I had 'done something' to you to make you tolerate me."

"Draco-"

"I said that if he wanted to know your motivations, he should talk to you, and that I didn't need some plot to attract me to you, as you're rather enough on your own to manage that."

He stared at the plate he had arranged, not sure what to do with it now that he had completed it.

He stilled as her hand stroked down his back. "I'm sorry," she said, voice a mere whisper. She turned him to face her, and laid a hand on his cheek. "That came out wrong, before."

"I don't think it did, Hermione," he said, looking down at her.

She opened her mouth the respond, and then closed it again. He realized his legs felt numb, and slid into the chair at the desk. The plate still sat in front of him, untouched.

She eased into his lap, and his arms came around her automatically. "I don't know how I feel about all this yet, Draco. Before the holiday, we were just shagging, and I _would_ be mad to tell anyone about that."

"And now?" he asked, sure of her answer.

"Now I don't know," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. "It's different now, but I don't think shouting it to the whole world is the best course for us."

"No, I suppose not," he said, staring down at the desk.

"Perhaps a better first step would be to study together occasionally," she said, "So that people get used to the idea of us spending time with each other."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. He wanted to ask if she was serious, and then decided it sounded pathetically weak.

"Or do you not want people to see us-"

"I have nothing to be ashamed of, being with you," he cut in.

She leaned forward and kissed him. He closed his eyes, stunned at the force of his relief.

She pulled back, lifting his chin and tracing a thumb over it. "You're nothing to be ashamed of either, but people would have to actually know that. Right now, I think they still see the Malfoy that terrorized them for so many years." To his surprise, she smiled slightly. "Though I did hear a couple of Ravenclaws discussing you in the bathroom. It seems they think you might be redeemable, and they rather like the idea of being the ones to do it."

"What, together?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and feigning interest.

"Arse," she said, slapping his chest.

"What are you going to tell Thomas?" he asked after a moment, sorry to return the conversation to its original purpose.

"You could call him Dean, you know," Hermione pointed out.

"I could," he said.

She rolled her eyes at him. "_Dean_ and I will have to have a bit of a heart to heart, I suppose."

"And?"

"And I'll figure out what I'm going to say to him then," she said. "For now," she grabbed a spear of broccoli off his plate, "I want to eat."


	24. On Friends, Saints, and Pedestals

For all Hermione's belated attempts at bravado, she felt utterly nauseous as she stood outside Dean's room. She had no idea how to handle the situation. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that she had fought Voldemort, for Christ's sake, and knocked sharply on the door.

He answered immediately, took one look at her, and stepped back to let her in.

"I take it your boyfriend mentioned we had a chat?" he said, more aggressively than he'd ever spoken to her.

"Should I turn and go then?" she asked, surprised at her own anger. "Only, I thought you were an actual friend, the sort that doesn't throw you over the minute things get a bit complicated."

"_A bit complicated_. You're dating Draco bloody Malfoy!" he shouted back.

"And?" she snapped, hands on her hips.

"And," he waved his arms around, as though swimming though a sea of responses and unable to grasp a single one.

She raised an eyebrow.

"It's Draco Malfoy!" he said.

"Yes," she said. "I'm quite aware."

"What would," he shook his head. "What _could_ _possibly_ make you want to . . . " The idea seemed too disturbing for him to even put it into words.

"Originally, or now?" she asked.

"There's more than one reason?" he asked, shocked. "I don't even see how you could come up with one."

"You don't see how I might have decided on Draco, of all people, after everything that's happened?" she asked.

"No!"

Hermione shrugged. "Well, perhaps that's the difference between men and women."

"Oh don't give me some bullocks about how he's just misunderstood. You're too smart to buy that kind of shite."

She laughed. "I am, yes. And I don't know that I would say he was misunderstood. I would say he was . . . less than admirable." At his look, she rolled her eyes. "Fine. He was a right bastard before, but even you have to admit he's been better this year."

"He doesn't spit on you your first day back and you decide that means he's _changed_?" he shouted, frustration poured into every word. "You are not that naïve."

"I'm not, no. I didn't decide he had changed my first day back," she explained. "I decided he would be the perfect revenge."

Dean stared at her. For several seconds all he could manage was two slow blinks. "Are you saying you-"

"Shagged him to get back at Ron? Why, yes, I believe I am."

"But you-" He shook his head. "You're not the sort."

"Everyone's the sort," Hermione said, dismissing his claim. "It just takes the right motivation. Are you going to claim I didn't have that?"

"No, of course Ron was a wanker. But shagging Malfoy seems like a better way to punish you than him. Not to mention I wouldn't have thought you'd shag _anyone_ casually, for any reason. Wasn't that part of the problem with Ron in the first place?"

"It was," she agreed. "Which probably played into why I decided to get my own back, in the way I did."

"But-"

"But nothing, Dean. I perfectly capable of being petty. I don't know why everyone has me up on some ridiculous pedestal. I'm every bit a flawed as the rest of humanity."

"I just," Dean began, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets and paced away. "Draco Malfoy?" he muttered. "Good lord." He looked over at her. "And now I suppose you're going to tell me you've changed him?" he said, sounding completely resigned.

"I'm not, no. He's changing himself, and I suppose I'm a factor. But I think it's more that I'm showing him things and letting him makeup his own mind about them."

"Mmhhmm . . ." Dean said, throwing himself down on his bed. He flung his arm over his face, as though he couldn't bear to see anything in a world turned on its head by her confessions.

"Think about it, Dean. You saw us together at a muggle art museum. A muggle art museum."

He removed his arm to stare at her balefully. "That doesn't make him a saint, Hermione."

"Of course not," she said, shoving him over to make space for herself. "I wouldn't call him that. Though I wouldn't really call anyone that." She flopped down and stared up at the ceiling. "He spent the holidays with me," she said. "He learned how to use a computer; we went to see films." She turned to look at him. "He likes muggle culture, Dean. He likes the music; he likes the movies; he likes the technology. He honestly thought we were still living in the middle ages. He told me he didn't like muggles because they were so filthy, because they threw their own excrement out the windows."

"So you're seeing him because he's an idiot?" Dean asked.

"He's an idiot because he'd never been exposed to muggles. I'm showing him our world, and – whether you want to believe it or not – he's finding his way through it. You heard about the fight with his mother. Does that sound like something he would have done a few years ago?"

He sighed. "No, but-"

"I'm not saying I think he's perfect, but I do think he's changing. And I'm not naïve enough to think that I'm changing him. The war affected us all, Dean. I'm living proof of that. So he has his scars, and he's trying to sort out how it's all changed him, and where he wants to go from here." She stared up at the ceiling. "I think that's a good thing. And," she turned to look at Dean, "From a completely selfish perspective, I think he's actually good for me."

"Now I've heard it all," he said. "Nothing, for the rest of my life, will ever shock me."

"Shut it," she said, elbowing him. "He's the only other person I can really tolerate, besides you."

"Oh, please don't lump me in with him."

"And," Hermione said, ignoring him, "I think he's helping me learn to deal with other people again, in an odd sort of way. After Christmas, that was the first time I can remember actually being able to have a real conversation with anyone but you or him. And the only thing that could account for that is my time with him over the break." She sat up and faced Dean straight on. "He _is_ good for me."

Dean sighed. "You do seem to eat more," he conceded eventually.

Hermione laughed. "You have no idea. It turns out he can cook. I was treated to feast after feast over the break."

"I can't imagine Malfoy cooking," Dean said. "And," he added, before Hermione could say anything. "I don't want to."

She shrugged. "Fine. I'm just saying, he does have his good points."

Dean made a noncommittal noise.

"So," Hermione said, looking down at her hands. "Are we still friends?"

Dean sat up, surprise written all across his face. "Of course. Christ, Hermione. I wasn't threatening to 'throw you over' or whatever you said. I just think you've gone a bit mad." He shrugged. "What sort of friend would I be if I abandoned you in the midst of a bout of insanity?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Well, I have no idea how to respond to that."

"Just promise me I don't have to spend time with him," Dean said.

Hermione laughed. "I don't think you have to worry about that. Assuming you haven't run your fat mouth all over school."

"I haven't even told Luna," Dean said. "It's just so," he shivered, "sordid."

"Thank you!" She crossed her arms, offended.

He just shrugged and turned to topic to something more appealing.


	25. Dear Boy

They waited a week before their first study date. Draco went to the library first, and Hermione came over to join him a short while later. They actually studied the entire time, which surprised Draco a bit. He'd never studied with anyone quite as focused as Hermione. They worked on Potions, for the most part, since the exam required incredibly detailed memorization. Then, much to Draco's disappointment, they moved on to History.

Hermione quizzed him on dates and names, while they both tried to ignore the ever-increasing flow of students passing through the library. The first few people to see them must have spread the word, because there was no doubt the students wandering past in groups of two or three were there to see them, rather than checkout books. Madam Pince was becoming more and more frustrated with the traffic.

After an hour of studying history, Draco said a casual goodbye and left Hermione to study Charms on her own. He would have been happy to stay with her, but they had agreed to keep it relatively short. Draco was mildly amused that Hermione thought a two hour study session short, but kept his teasing to a minimum.

He navigated his way through deserted hallways, as had become his custom, and was surprised to stumble upon Dean once more.

"Are you specifically looking for me?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

Dean stared at him for a moment, obviously aiming at intimidation, then gave up and shrugged. "No," he said. He glanced off in the direction he'd come, and Draco decided he looked mildly embarrassed. He must have been sneaking off to see his girl.

"Well," he said, nodding at Dean and starting off again.

"I just want to make something clear," Dean called after him, and Draco stopped. He was forcibly reminded of their previous encounter.

"Yes?"

"If you hurt her-" Dean began.

"If I hurt her, you're more than welcome to do whatever it is you have in mind," Draco said, cutting him off.

Dean stood, mouth open for a moment, looking utterly ridiculous. "Good then," he said finally, and turned to leave.

"Wait," Draco said, and watched him slow and turn. He cleared his throat. "Is it true, that you don't know who your father was?" he asked.

"If you think," Dean said, raising his wand, "That you can just-"

"I heard them talk about him," Draco cut in. "My uncle and his brother."

"What?" Dean said, wand lowering out of sheer surprise.

"They were saying they thought you might have been his, based on what they had seen at the school. It's why they had the snatchers looking so hard for you."

"The snatchers were looking for me?" Dean said. "I thought they were just looking for any muggleborns."

Draco shook his head. "They had you down in particular. Apparently your father was a pureblood who refused to join up, during the first war. Rodolphus and Rebastian killed him. They didn't know he had a family until they saw your file at Hogwarts, when they were making sure no muggleborns were attending."

"Did they say his name?" Dean said. "I looked, when I first came, but he wasn't a wizard. I didn't think, until years later, that maybe the name he used with my mum wasn't his own."

Draco nodded. "Jack Lewis."

"You're sure?" Dean asked.

Draco nodded again. "Yes."

"How can I know you're not just playing some joke?" Dean asked, raising his wand again.

Draco spread his arms. "I could take veritaserum, I suppose. Or extract the memory for you to put in a pensieve. Though I don't recommend the latter. Those two were anything but kind. I don't think you'd want to hear the actual conversation."

Dean stared into space for a moment. "Would you come with me, to McGonagall's office? Let her verify it?"

Draco considered. "Yes," he said finally.

Dean nodded, dropping the wand and starting forward. "Let's go then."

Draco eyed him sideways. "You don't want to let me out of your sight, do you? You're afraid I'll tamper with the memory somehow."

Dean shrugged. "You can't exactly expect me to trust you."

"No," Draco agreed, "I suppose not."

"Why did you tell me?" Dean asked.

Draco was wondering the same thing himself. "I suppose because I would want to know, if I was you. Especially if I'd fought on the side of the war you did. I imagine it would mean something, knowing he died for a cause you were willing to give your life for, knowing what he faced, knowing he didn't just leave."  
Draco could see Dean swallow, but the other boy didn't say anything else. When they arrived at McGonagall's office, Dean gestured for Draco to lead the way.

The headmistress looked quite surprised to find them there.

"Is there something I can do for you boys?" she asked, when they came in.

Dean nodded, but didn't say anything further.

Draco stepped forward. "I was telling Dean that I heard my uncle and his brother talk about his father. He was hoping you would verify the memory."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "Well, I suppose I could, though a well-altered memory can be nearly impossible to detect."

"He said he would take veritaserum," Dean said, giving Draco a look that said clearly he thought he would back out.

"I did," Draco agreed.

"Well," McGonagall said. "That's quite a selfless offer, Mr. Malfoy, but I am afraid we don't make a practice of giving such potions to our students. I believe your parents would object."

"I'm of age to give me consent," Draco said.

"Hmm . . ." McGonagall considered the two boys. "I suppose, if we controlled your surroundings . . ."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, looking between the two.

"She's concerned that after she asks about your father, I'll still be under the effects of the potion and could be interrogated by anyone at all."

"Yes, I am," she said. "But, I suppose," she said, looking at Dean, "That if we confirm the truth of the memory, we can lock young Draco in here until the potion wears off, thereby finding your answers while still preserving his privacy."

Dean nodded immediately. McGonagall looked to Draco. "Would you be comfortable with that, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I would." He glanced at Thomas. "But I would suggest that Thomas not be in the room."

Dean turned furious eyes on him. "I knew this wasn't-"

"Mr. Thomas," McGonagall cut it. "He is offering to do something very few people would volunteer for. Perhaps we should hear him out." She gestured for Draco to explain.

"Veritaserum and pensieves don't allow for any . . . cushioning, of the truth-"

"I don't want you altering the bloody-"

"Mr. Thomas, if you cannot stay silent I will send you away right now," McGonagall threatened. "Now, sit down, and let Mr. Malfoy finish."

"I'm not saying I would change the story. I'm saying, it would be better for you to get the truth from Professor McGonagall than from my uncle and his brother, which is what the veritaserum or pensieve would amount to."

"Ah," Professor McGonagall said, taking a seat and folding her hands. "You're concerned about him hearing the exact details of the conversation." She looked at Dean. "He may be right," she said.

"I want to know what happened to him," Dean responded immediately. "I fought in the war. I think I can handle a memory of a conversation."

Draco turned to him. "You fought in the war, which means all your time spent with Deatheaters was fighting them. Not a lot of time to chat, then. You don't need their comments; you need to be sure of his name. Once you are, you can find out about him – his death and his life." When Dean opened his mouth to respond, Draco merely pushed on. "You're friends with Neville Longbotton, aren't you?"

Dean's mouth snapped shut. "I suppose I am, yeah. We were roommates for six years."

"Do you know what happened to his parents?"

"Voldemort's followers got them, after he disappeared," Dean said.

"They didn't get them," Draco corrected. "They tortured them into insanity. I could tell Longbottom loads of details about what exactly they did to his parents. Would you say that was a good idea? Do you think any good would come of hearing exactly what Rodolphus and Rebastion and Bellatrix had to say about it, afterward? Do you think it would help him, to hear them insult them, to hear them mock them as they waxed nostalgic about destroying their minds?"

Dean dropped his eyes to his hands, stared at them for a long moment. "No, I suppose it wouldn't."

"So," Draco said, "the question is simply whether or not you trust Professor McGonagall."

Dean looked up at her. "Of course," he said.

"Then she can question me, and she can review the memory, and she can give you the details that might actually help you."

Dean nodded. Then he looked at Draco, an oddly neutral expression on his face. "Doesn't it bother you, that this is your family? That they do such horrible things?"

"Yes," Draco said shortly.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing left to be done but send you on your way, Mr. Thomas. If you could get Professor Slughorn, and ask him to bring some veritaserum?" Dean gave a quick nod and made for the door.

Professor McGonagall turned to face Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, I wonder if you would tell me exactly what motivated you to alert Mr. Thomas to all of this?"

Draco shrugged. "I just thought I would want to know what happened to my father, if I was him."

She nodded. "It was kind of you, to consider how he might feel, hearing them talk about his father."

"I always hated hearing them talk about the things they had done. It's hard to believe you're on the right side, when you're standing with the likes of them."

"Did you believe you were on the right side?" she asked, more curious than judgmental.

"Before Voldemort came back, yes."

"And after?"

"After," Draco shrugged. "You'd have to be blind or stupid to think he was anything but evil."

"Is there anyone else that went missing, that you might have information on?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, not that I can think of. Most of their crimes were fairly well-known."

She nodded. "Then perhaps we should start," she said, rising and walking over to a cupboard, where she found a pensieve and brought it back to rest on the desk in front of Draco.

"Do you know how to extract the memory?" she asked.

He nodded once, and then set about doing exactly that. When he'd placed the memory in the instrument, he looked up at her. "I know it won't be easy to separate, but I would appreciate it, if you'd try to remember that just because I'm related to them, it doesn't make me the same."

"Oh, my dear boy. I won't pretend I've always thought terribly highly of you, but I've never considered you a monster."

He ducked his head, and waited in silence while Slughorn bustled in. He made a great show of distress about the whole scenario, but handed the potion off with little genuine concern. Professor McGonagall asked him to leave before she administered it to Draco. She then locked the door securely, and gave him a bit of water with a few drops of the potion added in.

"Was this memory genuine and true?" she asked, when she was sure it had had enough time to take effect.

"Yes," Draco said.

"Have you altered the memory you gave me in any way?"

"No."

"Is there anything else I should know about the memory?" she asked.

"No," Draco said.

"Very good," she said. "I'm going to take the pensieve and step out. Please remain in here, with the door locked, until I return."

Draco looked up, surprised. "That's all you're going to ask? You aren't going to ask if I did anything in the war I should confess to? You're not going to-"

"Mr. Malfoy, you've done something very admirable today. I have no desire to punish you for it by making you reveal any secrets you may have." She patted him on the hand, and walked out the door.


	26. Reactions and Repercussions

Hermione knocked once more on Dean's door, then turned away in confusion. She was sure they had planned to meet at 8:00 to practice Defense for an hour. She gave the door a baffled look over her shoulder, because when you have nothing else to question, inanimate objects will do the trick. Then she headed off to her own room.

The beauty of having the map was she didn't have to speculate, or run from person to person looking for him. She could just get her answer from the map. It took her a while to find his dot, as it wasn't in his room, or Luna's, or anywhere in between. He was tucked away behind the Gregory the Smarmy statue, and Luna's dot was nowhere nearby. Concerned, Hermione wiped the map and toss it back in her trunk. Then she set off in search of her friend.

She found him, exactly as she had expected to, but not at all in a state she was prepared for. He sat with his back to the wall, his head in his hands. The motion of his shoulders told her clearly he was either laughing or crying, and she didn't see much around that was funny.

She dropped down next to him, giving him a tentative smile when he looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. "Hi," she said. "I got worried when you didn't show for our study session." She kept her voice quiet, the voice you would use on a small child, or a wounded animal.

"Yeah," he said, swiping his sleeve across his nose. "Sorry. Slipped my mind."

"It's fine," she said, inching closer and leaning in to him. When he didn't shove her off or pull away, she laid her head on his shoulder. Her heart broke when he leaned into it, when his sobs renewed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he said, voice breaking.

So they just sat, leaning on each other.

When he regained control of himself, Dean shot her an unmistakably embarrassed look. "Sorry," he said again.

"It's what friends are for, isn't it?" she said with a shrug.

"Your boyfriend told me what happened to my father today," he said.

She blinked at him, unable to process what he had said. "I don't understand."

"He said he'd overheard his uncle talking about it," Dean explained, staring at the wall opposite them.

Hermione felt all the air whoosh out of her body, had to struggle to get her breath back. "Are you saying he used it to hurt you?" she asked, terrified she already knew the answer.

Dean looked over at her. "No," he said, and looked away again. "He said he thought I would want to know that he'd been killed for not joining the Death Eaters, that he hadn't just left."

"Oh." Hermione couldn't seem to manage more. She knew this moment was about Dean, but she couldn't escape the rush of relief racing through her.

"He went with me to McGonagall's office, so she could verify his story." He looked down at his hands, where his fingers knotted together. "Took veritaserum and everything."

"Oh. My."

He glanced back at her. "She locked him in afterward, so no one could take advantage of it. I expect it will have worn off, the next time you see him."

"I wasn't thinking about that!" Hermione said, offended. "I'm just surprised he was willing to do it."

Dean didn't say anything, just continued gazing blankly into space.

"Does it help?" she asked. "Knowing?"

His shoulders rose and fell. "I dunno." He sniffed, and swiped his arm across his nose again. "McGonagall gave me his file. From school. Afterward." He was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight; Hermione could see it in his bearing, in his face. She wrapped her arms around him, rested her head on his shoulder again. "It's strange, reading about him. Makes him more real or something."

"Your mum didn't talk about him?" Hermione asked.

"Some. Not a lot." She could feel him inhale: one long, deep breath.

"I'm sorry it hurts you," she said finally.

Another breath. His shoulders rose with it. "It's alright," he said. "It's good he's someone I can be proud of."

Hermione stayed as she was, offering what comfort she could. She knew he'd let her know when he wanted more space.

She was dead on with that assessment, of course. It didn't take him long to start scrubbing at his eyes.

"Bloody hell. I must look like a complete tosser," he said, trying to get rid of all evidence of his tears.

"Don't go all caveman on me now," she said, dropping her arms. "Anyone would react to something like this. It only shows you've got a heart."

"Blokes don't have hearts," he said, with a slight smile. "We've got muscles and cocks. That's all."

Hermione burst out laughing. She covered her mouth, in a belated attempt to hold in the hysterics, but it was a futile effort. She was relieved to see Dean grinning back at her.

He dragged himself to his feet, and Hermione followed his lead. He gracefully accepted her offer to sort out his face, gave her a surprisingly sweet kiss on the cheek, and ambled away, mumbling something about not being up for studying that night. Hermione had a fairly good sense what direction his feet would take him, and thought Luna was probably exactly what he needed.

She had her own destination in mind anyway.

When she got to the Room of Requirement, Draco was exactly where she expected him to be: sitting on the bed, reading a book. He glanced up at her entrance.

"I take it you've seen Thomas," he said, after a long measuring look.

"I have, yes," she acknowledged, tossing her bag onto the chair. "You could have warned me you were planning to tell him that. For that matter, you could have told me and let me handle it. I'm sure it would have come better from a friend."

"Probably," Draco agreed. "But then, I didn't exactly plan to tell him. I _happened_ to run into him, and I _happened_ to remember, and I _happened_ to think he might prefer to know. There wasn't really any _planning_ involved at all."

"So all the times I've studied with him over the year, you just haven't _remembered_ you knew what happened to his father?" Hermione demanded, voice rising.

"It's not as though it was on my mind all the time. Believe it or not, Hermione, it wasn't actually one of the more memorable moments of the war for me."

"Oh, well, we should all try to make a bigger impression, I suppose, since so little seems to affect you. Please, tell me. What would have stood out to you?"

He tossed his book onto the bed, leapt to his feet. "The cruciatius comes to mind," he snapped. "And watching people tortured and murdered right in front of me. Shall I name them for you?" he growled. "Would you like details? Do you want to know whether they wept, or begged, or shit themselves?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, though not a thought was in her head as to what she could actually say, but he was already striding out the door. When it slammed behind him, Hermione closed her eyes. She could not have handled that any worse had she tried.


	27. Perspective

Hermione thought it rather ironic that the same day they'd gone out of their way to be seen in public together happened to be the same day they had a falling out. Draco hadn't come back to the Room that night. Hermione didn't see him until their shared Potions class, which wasn't the ideal time to talk. When he didn't appear the next night either, she began to grow concerned.

She lay in the bed, wondering if he really considered her reaction unforgivable. She played it over again in her head – as she had so many times since it had happened – and knew she'd behaved badly. She just didn't know how badly. She'd said far worse things to him before, really. But that had been _before_. There was a difference between hurting someone who had never expected anything else from you and hurting someone who had come to trust you.

She rolled over, curling into a ball and pulling his pillow close, hoping just the smell of him would bring some comfort.

For the first time in weeks, she dreamt of being tortured.

* * *

Draco kept his head down, and did his best to ignore the gossip circulating about their trip to the library. Naturally the time would work out as hideously as possible.

He wondered if she had gone to the Room last night. He nearly had, several times, but the insecure voice in his head sent him scurrying back to his room at every turn. Half of him was terrified she wouldn't be there, that she wouldn't bother with him after his outburst, that she'd have the sense to look behind the words and realize he was the sort of coward who could stand by and simply watch horrible things happen. She would never respect someone like that.

The other half was afraid she would be there, and didn't know what to do with that either. He'd tied himself more tightly to her than he'd ever intended, and he was beginning to see the danger in that. How many times could bear to be hit over the head with her true opinion of him. If he'd had the sense to keep her at arm's length, it wouldn't hurt so much. But he had oriented his world around her. Others awaited the day, the sunlight. He ached for the night, would give anything to keep the sun at a bay a few more hours, just to keep her close.

But for her, nothing had changed. He was still something that alternately shamed and disgusted her. If he was going to salvage anything of himself from this whole experience, he needed to take a step back now. Merlin, he needed to run full out in the opposite direction.

* * *

Hermione watched him throughout Potions, trying to decide what to do. He hadn't looked at her once. Even in the beginning, even when all they were doing was shagging, he'd looked at her. It was like she didn't exist to him anymore.

"You alright?" Ginny asked, from her seat next to Hermione.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't sleep well last night. I'm having trouble keeping my mind on task today."

Ginny gave her an understanding smile. "It probably didn't help that you barely touched your breakfast," she scolded.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I ate. I just wasn't very hungry."

"Mhmm. And here I'd thought you'd decided to stop starving yourself to death."

Hermione made a slight sound of annoyance. "I was never starving myself. Appetites change." Before Ginny could respond, she added a question about the potion. Ginny shot her a knowing look, but allowed the subject to shift, and let Hermione off the hot seat.

As soon as Ginny's attention was diverted, Hermione went back to her quiet study of Draco.

* * *

It took every ounce of his willpower not to look at her during Potions. The moment Slughorn dismissed him, he would be out of his seat and down the corridor.

Unfortunately for him, Hermione had other ideas. Before they had even finished clearing up, she appeared at his table. "Can we talk, after class?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to put her off, but her face stopped him. She looked tired and unhappy. He couldn't stand the thought that it was his doing. He gave a quick nod.

"Thanks," she said quietly, pushing a bit of unruly hair behind her ear and hiking her bag up further on her shoulder.

Draco spotted Ginny Weasley's look of compete confusion, as – he noted – did Hermione, who seemed determined to ignore it. When most of the class had cleared out, she gestured toward the door.

They began walking, but found the halls fuller than they had any right to be. It didn't take a genius to guess that people were lingering to hear what they could possibly have to talk about. Neither of them said anything as they wandered slowly about the school. Draco knew his next lesson was about to start, and that Hermione must be in a similar position, but didn't point it out. If she was willing to miss class to talk to him, it must be important. Especially if she was doing so publicly. It was nearly enough to give him hope, but he knew too well how cruel hope could be.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, when they reached a deserted section of the school. "It wasn't fair, what I said."

"Fair doesn't usually play into these sorts of things," he said, trying to keep his eyes off her face. "And anyway, it seemed about right."

"No," she said, stopping and shifting to face him. "It wasn't. What you did was thoughtful," she added. "You gave him his father," she continued in something close to a whisper. "I had no right to act as though you had done anything wrong, when you hadn't. Merlin, you took Veritaserum so he could be sure it was true. I don't even know if I could go that far for someone I wasn't close to."

"You were right," he said, turning away to walk again, "That I should have thought about how he would take it and-"

"You were being spontaneous," she cut in, catching his arm and pulling him around to face her again. "Being spontaneously kind is a good thing, Draco. Being spontaneously bitchy is a bad thing. I know who was in the wrong. I just wish you'd let me fix it."

He wanted to tell her that they didn't have anything worth fixing, that they had never built anything strong enough to withstand mending. But her eyes were wet, and he couldn't make the words come out. "You look tired," he said finally, tracing his thumb along her cheek.

She gave a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I couldn't sleep," she said. She pulled his mouth down, met it with her own. He closed his eyes, drinking her in as she pushed him back toward the wall. "I'm sorry," she mumbled into his mouth. "So sorry."

His hands took on a mind of their own, journeying down over her sides and back up to cup her face. He steered her toward the nearest classroom. "It doesn't matter," he said, between kisses. "You were right. I don't deserve you."

"Wait," she said, as he walked her back through the door. "I didn't say-"

He cut her off with more kisses. "Doesn't matter," he said, pulling back for a moment. _You're all that matters, _he thought, looking at her. But he held his tongue. When she dragged him back to her, he went willingly. Maybe he wouldn't get to keep her, but if he managed to steal a few moments of happiness, it was more than he had any right to expect.

He pulled her robes over her head, was nearly on to her shirt when it occurred to him to put a spell on the door. And then he remembered that they were in a classroom, and it was the middle of the day, and they were both conspicuously absent, and known to be in each other's presence. Hating the necessity, he eased back.

She was having none of it, but he held firm. "Hermione, we can't. Not here. Not unless you want the whole school to know."  
"I don't care," she said, pulling him back to her.

He rested his forehead against hers, breathed her in. "Yes, you do," he said. "Tonight," he added, brushing his lips over hers. "I'll see you tonight."

"Will you?" she asked, looking at him out of haunted eyes. And for the first time, he realized he wasn't the only one who could get hurt.

He stroked her cheek, wishing she didn't look so tired, wishing he hadn't been the one to put the shadows under her eyes. "Yes," he said. "I promise."

"I am sorry, Draco," she said, turning in to him. He wrapped his arms around her as she tried to burrow into his chest.

"It's fine," he said, kissing the top of her head. "You weren't wrong." When she would have argued, he shushed her with the inarguable point that they need to get back to class.

As they parted, he thought she'd left him with a great deal to think about.


	28. Want

Hermione paced the Room, worried he'd been lying about coming. She bit at her nails, feeling ridiculously, foolishly, pathetically female. Here she was, in an absolute panic about whether or not her boyfriend – not even her boyfriend! – her quasi-boyfriend fuck buddy was going to keep their 'date' or not.

She folded her arms across her chest, pacing with renewed vigor. She was furious with herself. This was absurd. This was Draco fucking Malfoy she was worried about. She tested the thought, hoping it would diminish her tension. She expelled the breath she had been holding, all the more angry with herself, because somehow it didn't help. She knew perfectly well it was Draco fucking Malfoy that had her tangled up in knots, just as she knew why. Somehow he had become her touchstone, her safe haven. He was one of very few people around whom she could simply _be_. He didn't expect her to be a hero, or a bookworm, or a jilted lover, or a stalwart friend, or a perfect bloody daughter. He didn't expect anything, and however she was seemed fine with him.

When she had dipped her toes in the icy water of revenge, he'd gone along for the ride – and somehow turned it into a different adventure altogether. When she'd embraced the idea of exploring her baser nature, he'd matched her step for step. When she had needed space, he offered it without hesitation. When she needed warmth, he gave it freely, without strings or requirements or qualifications. Just his warmth at her side, just his arms around her.

Losing Ron had been like losing a piece of herself, but Hermione was coming to realize that self had faded to nothing long before Ron had ever abandoned her. She wouldn't have been able to recognize that girl if she saw her on the street. The overachiever who worried about rules and grades and school above all else had been held over the forge and hammered into something else altogether.

She spun as the door opened and scrambled to appear nonchalant as Draco walked in. She failed obviously, as his expression showed.

"You alright?" he asked.

"No," she said, stepping forward and slapping him hard in the chest, one, two, three times. "No, I'm not. Because somebody decided to take a million bloody years to come tonight."

He smiled, and she blinked at the brilliance of it. "You were worried," he said, backing her toward the bed. "You were worried I wasn't actually going to come."

"Shut it," she said.

"What happened to being sorry?" he asked, as her knees hit the bed, and she was forced to scoot onto it.

"You were late," she said, as he crawled on after her.

"I should be late more often," he said, catching her bottom lip between his teeth.

She wanted to tell him that was the wrong attitude, but he was kissing her, and touching her, and she couldn't seem to form any sort of truly coherent thought.

His teeth sunk into her lip, just this side of painful. She moaned and arched into him. "Draco," she breathed, when he pulled back just far enough to be able to look at her.

His mouth took hers again, hard, fast, reckless. She tangled a hand in his hair, gripped his shoulder with the other, then let it slide down his chest. Instinctively, she was pulling at his shirt, struggling to find skin.

He let her go just long enough to pull it over his head, then dragged her back to him for another mind emptying kiss.

"Do you know how much I want you?" he asked, mouth moving down her neck, over her shoulders. Deft fingers flicked open buttons as his mouth continued to roam over her skin. "Do you know how crazy you make me?" he breathed.

His tongue slid under her bra as he unclasped it one-handed. His lips closed over newly exposed flesh, teeth grazing her nipple and making her cry out. She arched her hips, tried to press against him, but he shifted away.

"No," he mumbled. "I want you at least half as mad as I am."

She tried to tell him she was, but couldn't get her tongue to form meaningful words. He continued his journey down, dragging her trousers off.

He sat back on his heels and took her foot in his hands, drawing it up. "Do you know," he began, as his thumb stroked over the arch of her foot, "do you have any idea, how long I've wanted you?" he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he used mouth, just there, until she was writhing, begging. When his hands slid up her leg, eased closer to where she burned for him, she thought he would finish it, but he shifted and stroked them down her other leg. He gave that foot the same treatment and had her insensible.

Finally, finally his mouth moved up her calf, breaking for a moment to take advantage of the sensitive skin just behind her knees, before journeying up the inside of her thighs. Still he toyed with her, scraping teeth over skin, stopping just short of his destination.

She twisted a hand into his hair, urged him on. "Please," she moaned. "Draco."

She was so aching, so dismantled, so ready that she came the moment his mouth touched her. Her hips arched, her hands dragged at his hair. When she could focus again, she looked down to find him watching her, a wicked smile on his face as he moved up her body.

"You're such a bastard," she breathed, but he only chuckled.

"I like it better when you beg," he said, licking his lips.

His hands moved down, brought her back to the edge, and delivered his desired result. She was pleading with him when he took her, screaming as she came, her nails scoring down his back, his name on her lips.

* * *

_A/N: Too much?_

_PS Apologies for any editing issues. The second half of this was a last minute addition. I usually give each chapter some breathing room, so I can edit properly, but I wanted to get this up sooner rather than later. I'll probably regret it when I check it over a week from now. Maybe I should figure out how the whole beta process works.  
_


	29. Reflections

"I was worried," she admitted later, as she lay curled in his warmth.

"Good," he said sleepily, nuzzling into her. "Now you know some small fraction of what you do to me constantly."

"I do not," she said, surprised.

"You do, yes," he responded calmly.

She was silent for a long moment, considering. "Would you have come back, if I hadn't made you talk to me?"

She felt him breathing, counted several breaths before he answered. "I don't know. I was planning on staying away."

Hermione closed her eyes. She had sensed as much, but hadn't expected him to admit it. "Is that all it takes to make you leave?" she asked. "One moment of idiocy? Of callousness?"

"It wasn't what you said, Hermione," he said finally. "It was why you said it. It's not about the one moment; it's about what you think of me in general."

She sat up, unwilling to have this conversation without being able to properly look at him. "Does this go back to what you said, about you not deserving me? Is that how you think I feel?"

"Isn't it?" he asked.

She pulled the sheet up around her, armoring herself against her own vulnerability. "No," she said. "I might have once." She shook her head. "Though honestly, I wouldn't have thought of it in those terms. I'm not exactly a catch."

"That's-"

"I'm not fishing for flattery," she said, cutting him off. "I'm only saying I'm practical enough to know I'm no one's dream girl." She continued on, over the beginnings of his protest. "I might have said you didn't have a lot to recommend you."

"Nothing redeeming," he commented, distracted from his original intent. "I remember."

"But that was before I really knew you," she said. "Now it's different. Now I know there's more to you than I ever thought. I didn't say I was sorry for what I said just because I wanted to smooth things over. I wanted you to know I was sorry, whether or not it fixed anything, because I was. Because you didn't deserve that reaction from me. Because _you_ deserved better."

"What do you think of me now?" he asked. "Really."

She wanted to shrug, but was unwilling to treat the question with so little respect. She knew it couldn't have been easy to ask. She remembered asking something similar once herself. "Truth?" she said, unsurprised to receive a quick nod from him. "I think you're very intelligent, and that you have this wonderful, curious mind. I think it's more flexible and open than I ever could have anticipated. I think you can be sweet, and charming, and fun. I think you can also be . . . distant, and cold, and infuriating. I think you're still deciding where you stand on things, that you're still putting the finishing touches on your conscience, on your sense of right and wrong. But I like the direction it's going in. I think you have a very large capacity for compassion, and that you're . . . disposing of the locks you'd put on it before."

"I think you make me feel safe," she said, and noted the surprise flit across his face. "I think you make me feel beautiful, and strong, and whole. Not whole, like you complete me," she added quickly, nervous at how he might respond. "It's more that I feel like you see who I am as already complete. You aren't expecting me to change, to be something better, to be something more."

"I can't imagine what you could change that would make you better," he said, kissing her hand. "Though we should probably talk a bit about the number Weasley did on your head." She looked away, and tried to tug her hand out of his grasp, but he held tight. "For someone with your beauty and your brains, with your strength and your heart, for someone universally revered, you have a surprising streak of insecurity."

"I am not universally revered," she mumbled.

He laughed. "Well, at least you admit to the rest of it."

"I wasn't-" she began, blushing, but he cut her off with a kiss.

"You should," he said. He pulled her back down into bed with him and dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Thank you," he said. At her confused look, he added, "For having good things to say about me."

She smiled. "It's not hard. I had all that time to worry about what I would be losing if you didn't show up."

"I told you I should be late more often," he teased.

It didn't even occur to Hermione to worry about having nightmares as she drifted off to sleep that night. She felt perfectly safe, wrapped in his arms.

* * *

_A/N I know it was short. I'd been intending to do this one in combination with the last chapter, but then I decided 29 needed a little more scandalous detail, and that the jump was too extreme with just a section break before this, so . . . Anyway, the real reason I'm doing an author's note is because I have a question/pair of questions for you._

_**How much Draco/Hermione/Muggle world interaction do you want to see?** I'm tempted to sort of summarize over it and jump to fun confrontations (i.e. Harry, Ron, Ginny, etc.), with just the stuff I need to forward developing relationships, but I do like the Draco/Hermione moments, so I'm very torn. Thoughts?_

_**If you do want to see more muggle-y stuff, is there anything in particular you'd like to see Draco introduced to?** My list originally included things like clubs, concerts, and sporting events, but they're all sort of fluff, so I don't have a strong need to show any of them in particular, and would be fairly comfortable just sort of referencing that they've done it (which you know from the above question) and moving on. _

_Anyway, let me know your thoughts sooner rather than later, because right now I'm in a bit of an indecisive holding pattern, and that tends to lead to me getting distracted by other stories, and yada, yada, yada, it's months before I get back to this and by then I've forgotten where I meant it all to go in the first place.  
_


	30. On the Mechanics of Eating

After resolving their fight, Hermione and Draco went on about the business of acclimating people to the idea of their friendship, at least as a starting point. Over the course of the next month, they were seen first studying together on a regular basis. Then, from time to time, people saw them walking to class together, or chatting in the halls. If they 'happened' to run into each other in Hogsmeade, they shared a friendly word, or even a pint.

The school speculated about it, as one would expect, but always in hushed tones. While Hermione had been the subject of a great deal of gossip because of Ron, most were loath to claim she'd developed a relationship with a former Death Eater. Were they wrong, it would be the sort of faux pas they may never recover from. One does not implicate a war hero in scandal without being completely certain of one's facts.

No one, it seemed, was certain of anything, except that they seemed to get along, and spent a good deal of time in each other's company. So much so that people had stopped even noticing it. If anything, they had begun to notice the one evident hole in their time spent together.

"Why doesn't Draco eat in the Great Hall?" Dean asked one day. Hermione was conscious that the table in general had silenced itself at the question. Everyone wondered if Dean and Ginny knew something they didn't, but Dean responded with scathing encouragement that curiosity seekers should nut up and ask Hermione herself if they wanted to know something about her, and Ginny greeted questions about Draco and Hermione with bat-bogey hexes.

Hermione shrugged. "He doesn't exactly get on with the rest of the Slytherins, does he?"

Dean glanced over at the table, considering. "Is that his doing, or theirs?"

"I imagine it's a little of both," Hermione responded, continuing about her meal. She tried to remain as nonchalant as possible. It was odd for Dean to ask about him at all, let alone in public. He was still the only person who knew about them. "After what happened with his mum, it's fairly obvious he wasn't a big fan of Voldemort or the Death Eaters."

"So why doesn't he eat with you?" Dean asked.

Hermione choked on her pumpkin juice. She shot Dean, who looked both amused and exceedingly pleased with himself, a covert glare. "I can't imagine he expects a better welcome from our house."

Ginny made an indistinct noise, and Hermione took it to be a swallowed exclamation. Ginny had not come around on Draco in the least, and seemed to keep her opinions to herself only through white-knuckled self-control.

"I wouldn't mind," Dean said eventually, "if he sat with us. It was class of him to tell me about my dad. He didn't have to do that, and he certainly didn't have to take Veritaserum. Seems to me that if we're serious about trying to 'heal the rifts from the war,' as folk are always on about, the least we can do is let the blokes who are making a genuine effort sit with us."

Hermione met Dean's eyes, and smiled slightly. "Look at you, exercising your reason and compassion. I guess blokes aren't just muscles and cocks after all."

Dean laughed so hard at that, he ended up having to spit his juice back into his glass, much to the disgust of most of the students around him.


	31. Fit For

It was the night before a massive quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, when Ginny caught up with Hermione.

"Hey, are you heading up to bed?" the redhead asked, jogging up to Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione lied. "I'm absolutely knackered. What about you?"

Ginny nodded. "Same. We're all trying to get a good night's sleep before the match tomorrow."

"Oh, right," Hermione said. "I forgot about that. Good luck."

Ginny gave her a furtive look. "Are you coming to root us on tomorrow?"

Hermione grimaced. "I don't think so. That's one of those things I did with Ron and Harry. I was never all that big on quidditch to begin with," she tossed Ginny a look, "as you well know." Ginny gave her a small nod. "And now," Hermione shrugged, "I just don't see any point in reopening old wounds."

Ginny sighed. "Well, I was going to try to get you to come, and maybe slag you off a bit for being torn between Slytherin and Gryffindor-"

"I would never root for Slytherin against Gryffindor!" Hermione said, shocked.

"But, now I'd feel like a bit of a twat doing either of those things," Ginny continued, as though Hermione had never interrupted, "so I'll leave you to your books, and your studying," she made a face, "and your study-buddy."

"You might like him," Hermione laughed at Ginny's expression, "if you gave him a chance."

"I'm alright, thanks," Ginny said. "But your business is your business." She waved the whole topic away.

"If only the whole of the world were as understanding as you," Hermione said, with a wry smile.

Ginny glanced over at her, as they made their way to the common room. "At least they haven't had any articles focused specifically on you, lately," she said, looking apologetic.

Hermione smiled, surprised that it wasn't all that difficult an expression to form, given the topic. "No, they haven't, and I'm grateful for that, at least."

"He's going to wake up one day and realized what he's lost," Ginny predicted.

"Perhaps," Hermione said with a shrug. "Or perhaps he made the right decision, really. We obviously weren't fit for each other."

"Nobody is fit for him," Ginny said archly, "because he's a git. An absolute idiot. A rock wouldn't be fit for him."

Hermione laughed. "Careful, there. I thought there was something to be said for family loyalty."

"I prefer to pretend he's adopted," Ginny said, as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. "And now I'm for bed." She gave Hermione a quick one armed hug and headed up to her dormitory.

Hermione looked around and spotted Dean in a corner, studying. She strolled over and dropped into a chair next to him.

"Alright?" he asked, without glancing up.

"I'm lovely, thanks," Hermione said.

He did look up at that. "I don't even think you're being sarcastic," he said. "And after an encounter with our Ginny," he added.

Hermione smiled. "I told you I'm doing better," she said, surveying his books. "I thought you lot were getting a good night's rest."

He nodded. "We are," he explained. "Captain's orders."

"And?"

"And I've got a bit of studying to finish up, so I'm ignoring them," he said. "Perks of being an eighth year."

"If you spent a little less time learning how to play doctor . . ." Hermione teased.

"Hark," he returned, with raised eyebrows. "Says the pot to the kettle."

She rolled her eyes. "Speaking of studying, I think I've forgotten a book in the library." She rose with a slow smile. "I think I'll just go sort that out, shall I?" She dropped a kiss on his head. "Good luck tomorrow."

He nodded. "You have fun doing whatever it is you do on match days," he said, with a vague gesture.

Hermione stopped and looked back at him. "Does it bother you I don't go to watch you play?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No," he said, giving her a serious look. "Though I'll consider it an all around win if you ever decide to go." When she would have offered, he waved it off. "But you're not quite there yet, I think."

She nodded once. Then pressed another kiss to the top of his head. "I adore you, you know," she said. "Truly," she added, backing away. "You give me hope for the male of the species."

He laughed at that. "Then don't go talking to Luna. I'm sure she could list dozens of ways I'm still a bloody man."

Hermione grinned. "I doubt it. She's nearly as besotted as you are."

"Nearly? I've got her wrapped around my finger," he said.

"Oh? So swimming in the lake in February, searching for merpeople to talk to? That was your idea?" Hermione asked innocently.

He shook his head, and Hermione nearly thought he blushed. Then he chucked a quill at her and told her to get lost. She did, quite happily.


	32. Show and Tell

The next morning found Hermione exactly where she intended to be, in the Room of Requirement, with a certain blond-haired, gray-eyed boy named Draco. She rolled over to see if the boy in question was awake, and found him blinking blearily at her.

"G'morning," he mumbled, snuggling into her and immediately falling back to sleep. Deciding she didn't mind a bit of a lie in, she merely closed her eyes and settled in.

She hadn't told him what she had in mind for the day. For the most part, when they went on excursions into the heart of the muggle world, he picked the activity through sheer interest. They had been to films, and concerts, and clubs, his love of music and entertainment drawing them to each. They had been to libraries, and colleges, and museums, where he could explore the breadth and depth of muggle knowledge and innovation. He had been utterly fascinated by the science museum. She had the impression he wanted to understand every bit of it, every item, every theory, every concept.

But every once in a while, she brought him somewhere of her choosing alone, somewhere that meant something special to her, or somewhere she thought might mean something to him. They had been to the beach she frequented as a child, and they planned to go back, when the weather turned. Beaches weren't at their best in winter, but there was something nice about strolling along the deserted coast, with nothing but the waves, and rocks, and sand, and his hand in hers.

And today, she had another cherished childhood spot to share with him. She felt quite certain he would enjoy this one.

Now too excited to sleep in, she went about waking him slowly. She kissed his nose, and his eyes, and the corners of his lips. She let her hands wander over his arms, his chest, his stomach. He mumbled something incomprehensible, and she slipped down, dropping kisses along his chest. She found his happy trail, and followed it like a treasure map. By the time she closed her mouth over him, he was already hard.

His hips jerked, and his hand tangled in her hair. "Merlin, Hermione," he said, fully awake now. She smiled, crawling back up him.

"I'm excited," she said. "We have the whole day together."

She lowered her mouth to his, sinking into the kiss as his hands closed over her hips.

"I've been thinking," he said, as she shifted over him, took him into her.

"Mhhmm?" she asked, quickly losing the ability to carry on a conversation.

"We should really leave school," he said, thrusting into her. "Spend every day together."

She would have laughed, if she'd had the breath for it. "It doesn't mean I'd wake you up like this every day," she gasped out, barely able to hold the thought in her head.

"No?" he said.

She shook her head. "I can't talk right now," she said. She thought he might have laughed, but he looked to be as lost to her as she was to him.

* * *

When she had collapsed on top of him, he renewed the former line of conversation. "So, you're quite sure we couldn't start every day like that?" he asked, out of breath. His hand stroked over her mass of insane hair.

"It seems unlikely," she mumbled.

"Ah well," he said. "I suppose school is good too."

She laughed at the completely dejected tone he said it in, and looked up to find him smiling at her.

"So, what," he began, rolling her under him and placing kisses along her jaw, "my beautiful witch, do you have in store for me today?"

"That wasn't enough?" she teased.

"There's never enough, when it comes to you. I think I must not have made it clear, how lovely you are." He took her hand, raised it to his lips. "Everything, from your fingers," he kissed each on in turn, "to your wrists," and he dropped a kiss there as well, "to your arms," his hand traveled up the one he was holding, "is utterly perfect."

"Your shoulders," he continued, "for instance," and he grazed his teeth over one, "may look like normal shoulders, to the untrained eye. But to someone with true vision, they're a work of art. The way they curve, just so," he explained, the tip of his tongue tracing over her shoulder. "The way they move, the way they taste."

"You're biased," Hermione said, trying to curtail the tide of his flattery. She was too smart to be warmed by it, but she could feel herself melting into a puddle at his feet. "You even like my hair, and no one likes my hair."

He shook his head. "Everyone likes your hair. Your hair is a signature, _your_ signature. It's glorious. Soft, and shiny, and rich. You can tame it into submission, if you want to, show everyone exactly how lovely it is. But I like that you don't. Instead you let it roam free, each individual hair making up its own mind where it wants to go, and what it wants to do. See here," he lifted a lock of her hair. "There's some in here with a mind to be curly, and some with a mind to be straight, and none of them are quite working together on it." He grinned at her. "I like to think they're influenced by the sheer amount of activity taking place inside your head," he said, kissing her forehead. "Like each stray thought you have sends a hair scurrying to do its bidding."

"You're ridiculous," she said, shaking her head.

"Not at all. And the end result still looks good. A bit mad, I'll grant you, but perfectly Hermione. And since we've already determined that you are the definition of perfection, it follows that hair that is so utterly you must also be perfection."

She would have argued again, but he started speaking first.

"Anyway, I like it. It's sexy."

She didn't have a response for that, so she kept her mouth closed.

He gave her a long look, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly how insecure she really was about all this, but he didn't comment on it.

"So, what did you have planned for me today, aside from your lovely little eye-opener?"

She smiled. "It's a surprise. But we should get going now, if we want to make the most of it."

"And what should I be wearing, if I am to blend in with the muggles?" he asked.

She considered his question as she climbed out of bed. "Just jeans, I suppose. Make sure to bring a jacket," she added, as she strolled into the bathroom to take a shower.

Once they had begun spending nights there, the room had sprouted a full bathroom. She couldn't have been more relieved. Sneaking back to her room, looking tousled and smelling of sex had never been entirely comfortable.

She was just rinsing her hair when he climbed into the shower with her. "I've done a bit of transfiguration," he said. "I think it all looks alright, but I'd appreciate an expert opinion."

She nodded. "I'll go have a look." She kissed him quickly and left him to his shower.

After toweling off, she wandered over to look at his clothes. He'd gone with jeans, which he'd naturally transfigured to fit him perfectly. She didn't know how he did it so well, but the end result was that he might as well have been wearing designer clothes, perfectly tailored to his own body.

The shirt he had transfigured was a simple t-shirt. She picked it up, because he had the most enviable ability to transfigure things into only the most comfortable of fabrics. Looking at the back of the shirt, she let out a surprised laugh. He'd done a design in the back that – to the untrained eye – would have simply looked like artistic nonsense. But knowing him, and remembering their recent discussion, she was quite sure it was his artistic interpretation of her _hair_. The lines twisted and curled each in their own way, without any apparent cooperation. And yet, somehow, under his deft manipulation, the design as a whole looked attractive.

She shook her head, laying the shirt out again. Then she moved onto the jacket. It was simple, black, without any real embellishments. Still, it managed to look warm, comfortable, and fashionable, a triumvirate she had never managed in her own clothes. Perhaps she should convince him to start designing her wardrobe, she thought ruefully.

When he came into the room, with a towel wrapped around his waist, his smile confirmed her suspicions. "Did you like them?" he asked with a nod.

"You're ridiculous," she said again, getting a laugh out of him.

"I'm not the one who can't see what everyone else can," he commented, dropping the towel and starting to change.

"You see things artistically," she decided. "That must be it." Then she laughed. "Which means I probably should have you designing my clothes."

He grinned at that. "Happy too. If by clothes you mean lingerie."

She rolled her eyes and set about getting dressed herself, gratified by the way he watched her. However much he said she was beautiful, however many times he told her she was sexy, nothing convinced quite as well as the way he looked at her.


	33. Alton Towers

They took the tunnel into Hogsmeade, and then apparated close to their actual destination. As they walked the last leg of their trek, Draco kept giving Hermione speculative looks.

"Is it a play?" he asked. "Only, we have those too, so you wouldn't be excited about that," he mumbled to himself.

"You're not going to guess puppet show?" she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but she noted that his color rose as well. "I wasn't planning on it, no," he said. "It's not the ballet is it?" At her look, he elaborated. "I read about it. It sounds fairly similar to our ballet. Same with opera. I'd be happy to take you sometime," he offered. "I'm sure it would be interesting to see the differences, but . . ."

"But it's not your idea of an exciting Saturday," she finished for him.

"No, it's not." He looked over at her. "It would make a nice date, though. You could get all dressed up." His smile took on a distinctly roguish cast. "I wouldn't mind that a bit." He looked more and more intrigued by the idea every second. "We could rent a room for the night, in one of the hotels." He smiled at her. "I could show you off."

"I don't know about that," she said, "but the rest of it sounds like a plan. We should do it. Maybe next weekend?" she suggested.

He nodded. "Have you been before?"

"I have, yes," she answered. "I love the ballet. I wasn't so keen on opera."

He grinned. "No, it's not my favorite either. It can be alright, if done well, but, all in all, I think the muggles have the right idea with their films."

She laughed. "Who would have thought it?"

"Only you," he said, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close.

"That's true," she agreed, leaning into his embrace. "I guess I did think of it." She smiled at the thought.

They approached their destination in comfortable silence. She liked that she didn't always have to talk, with him. They could just be, and know that nothing was wrong, and no one was angry.

The foot traffic picked up as they approached the entrance.

"Alton Towers," he read, glancing over at her. "Are you going to tell me what's in store for me?"

She shook her head, grinning. "Nope. It's a surprise." She grabbed his hand and dragged him up to the ticket booths, where she bought two tickets. Then she pulled him through the gates and watched him take it all in.

He eyed the people milling about and waiting in lines. Then his eyes rose up to the massive roller coaster in front of them. "Merlin," he said, watching a train speed down it. He looked over at her. "We're going to ride that?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "If you want."

His smile lit up. "Absolutely," he said. Then he paused. "It is safe, isn't it?" he asked, voice lowered.

"Of course," she said. "They do all sorts of things to make sure it's completely safe."

"Great," he said, pulling her forward. "Let's get on."

"Draco," she laughed. "There's a queue. We can't just walk past everyone waiting and get on."

"No," he said. "Of course not. Let's join the queue then."

She couldn't help laughing at him, as they waited. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyeing each successive run with more and more excitement.

"This is amazing," he whispered. "I bloody love muggles. They're genius."

When their turn came around, they each took their seats, and Draco gave her a nervous look. She laid her hand over his. "It's fun," she said. "I promise. And I hate flying," she added in a whisper.

He nodded once, and then took a deep breath as the ride began. The first drop had him gripping the seat in front of him, but as he looked around at all the other people on the ride, with their arms lifted, he relaxed.

He let go and raised his arms above his head, laughing at the sheer thrill of it.

The moment they were off he wanted to queue back up again. She shook her head. "There are more to try," she said. "They've one that takes you upside down." His eyes lit up, making her laugh again.

"Let's do that one next," he decided, rising on his toes and looking around for it.

"I'm glad you like it," she said, taking his hand and starting off toward the ride in question. "I was worried you might not enjoy it as much as I always did."

"How could I not?" he asked. "Did you come here a lot?"

"Every summer," she said, smiling. "It's a fairly common destination for families." She saw him look around and note that most of the people around them were in fact families.

"That's better than my summers," he said, letting her lead him. "They tended to involve long visits with boring people, in places where you couldn't touch or do anything."

"Which is saying something, given your love for museums," she commented.

He paused his survey of the park to give her a baffled look. "What do museums have to do with anything?" he asked.

"That's the big complaint people have about museums. That they're boring, and you can't touch or do anything."

"Clearly those people have neither intelligence nor taste," he commented, without really paying attention. He gave her a slight smile when she laughed at him, but moved on easily. "Honestly," he said. "You have no idea how much better your holidays must have been than mine."

"I'm sure I would have loved yours. They were probably full of travel to fascinating places," she added.

"To France, to visit relatives. To Italy, to visit relatives. To Germany, to visit relatives. To Russia, to visit relatives." He waved it all away.

"Are you related to the whole of Europe then?" she asked, steering him toward a food booth.

"The purebloods," he said, without thinking. "Or most of them anyway. I don't understand their logic, really, going to war. If you think about it, mixed-bloods can always make more mixed-bloods, and muggleborns pop-up despite everyone's best efforts, but at a certain point, they won't be able to make any more purebloods."

Hermione snorted. "I expect they reached that point a long time ago, and the," her voice dropped to a whisper, "purebloods have just decided to forget the little indiscretions of their line."

"Do you think?" he asked, turning to look at her. "I'd be surprised if anyone in my family had ever-"

"But you have, haven't you?" she cut in. "There are bound to have been others."

"They tend to get disowned, like my mother's sister," he commented.

Hermione nearly didn't hear the man in front of them ask for her order. She ordered a pair of hotdogs and two sodas, and exchanged money with the vendor.

"Have you thought at all about visiting her?" she asked.

"Who? My mother?" He shrugged. "I'll go during the next holiday."

Hermione shook her head, handing him a hotdog and a soda. "No, your aunt."

He raised his eyebrows. "Why would I want to visit her?" he asked.

Hermione made an annoyed sound, then rolled her eyes and took a bite of her hotdog.

"What?" he said. "It's not as though I've ever met her." He shook his head and followed her lead, biting into his own hotdog. "What is this?" he asked, after chewing and swallowing.

"It's a hotdog," she said. "You don't want to know any more than that. And, as for your aunt, you haven't met her because she ran off with someone like me. Don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to continue pretending she doesn't exist?"

"No," he shrugged. "I think you overestimate how much I like my family. There aren't many I can think of that I'd voluntarily spend time with. My mum's really the best of the lot, and we haven't been getting along too well lately," he finished with a significant look.

"It's up to you," Hermione said, knowing when to bow out. "But it might be nice to know what you can look forward to, if anyone finds out about us."

"Are you planning on having people find out about us?" he asked, mouth full.

She laughed at his expression. He must have been surprised, to talk with food in his mouth. That wasn't something she had ever seen him do. "I wouldn't say planning, exactly, but isn't the whole point of studying and being friendly to ease people into the idea?"

He nodded, wiping ketchup off his chin with a napkin. "I guess so, yeah." He considered her. "Do you think my mum would disown me?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, taking a drink. He had kept the question casual, so Hermione followed in the same tone. "I can't say that I really know her at all, and what I do know isn't . . ." she trailed off with a shrug.

"Yeah," he said, thinking it over. "I wouldn't have thought there was anything I could do that would make her turn away from me, but-" he chucked his wrapped into a nearby bin. "Then again, they did fight a war over it."

Hermione watched him drink his soda. "If you'd rather we stop spending time together-"

"No," he cut her off. "I wouldn't."

She smiled. "I meant publicly."

"I wouldn't rather that either. If I'm willing to try, she had better be," he declared, with an air of finality.

Hermione gave him a smacking kiss and a bright smile. Then she tossed her own trash in the bin and took his hand.

"Will the food make us sick, on the next ride?" he asked.

"It might," Hermione decided, looking thoughtful. "People _do_ get sick from time to time." Then her smile brightened. "But, there's a spectacular cinema here. We could watch a movie, and then come back and ride your ride."

He looked a little sad at the idea, but she was sure he would like the "4D" experience she had in store for him.

* * *

A/N Sorry it's not a multi-chapter update. I've got a few more written, but haven't edited them yet. Sadly, I didn't manage to finish the story in my last go, and my interest is waning, so here's hoping it picks up and I manage to finish it out.


	34. Quarter

By the time they got back to Hogwarts, the match was long over and the festivities were well underway. Draco elected to stay in the Room, but Hermione thought she should at least find out what happened and give Ginny and Dean her congratulations or condolences.

She didn't have to ask what happened, however, as the common room was full of celebration.

"We destroyed them!" one of the young beaters was shouting. "Ripped the scales from their slithering bodies!" Hermione had to assume he'd had quite a lot to drink, given his state, but knew it was no longer her problem.

"Hermione!" Ginny shouted, spotting her. "I looked for you after the match. Where've you been?" She folded Hermione into a massive bear hug.

"I was studying," she said, looking over at Dean, whose eyes were full of laughter.

"You'll be a doctor one day, Hermione, if you just stick with it," he said, snickering. She noted the mead in his hand and worried it might loosen his tongue a bit too much.

"Healers, Dean," Ginny corrected, swaying slightly. "They're called healers." She turned and shared a sloppy smile with Hermione. "Boys are such idiots."

"Are they now?" Hermione asked, guiding Ginny over to a couch.

"Mmhhmm. Take Harry, for instance," she said, waving her arm. "He is a _complete_ idiot. I suggested, over Christmas, that it might be nice to spend a bit of time just him and me. At their place. Without any interruptions. And he said as much to Ron." She flung her head back, and Hermione winced as it connected with the wood at back of the sofa. "Naturally Ron makes a complete nuisance of himself, and Harry and I don't get a moment to ourselves," Ginny finished, not seeming at all worse for the wear.

"Maybe you'll be able to get your own place," Hermione suggested, patting Ginny's arm, "once you're out of school."

Ginny rolled her head around. "But that's _ages_ away. I want him now."

"Tell him that," Dean suggested, as Hermione tried to control her laughter. "I expect he'll have his own place by the end of the day."

"Mmmm . . ." Ginny mumbled, eyes closed.

"I think she's out," Dean said, after a quick study. "So," he added, grinning, "how was your day?"

"Quite nice, thank you," Hermione said, stealing his drink and taking a few sips.

"What did you get up to?" he asked, taking it back and making himself comfortable.

She shrugged. At his look, she rolled her eyes. "Not that. We went to Alton Towers."

"Bloody hell. You could have told me. I used to love that place," he said, looking nostalgic.

She laughed. "Oh, and would you have missed your match for it?"

He shook his head. "Course not. But I would have talked you round to waiting until I could go. Bet Luna would have enjoyed it too."

"You understand who the other half of the 'we' was, don't you?" Hermione said, in a hushed voice.

He nodded. "Sure. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing, us all spending a bit of time together."

"You must be drunk," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"A bit," he acknowledged, tipping his cup to her. "But not pissed or anything," he said. "Maybe a quarter pissed," he decided. "But I'd be alright with it. Plus, Luna says it'll help me wrap my head around it, if I see you two together being all . . . " he gestured vaguely.

"So Luna knows?" Hermione asked, taking his cup again. She glanced around at the room, but no one was close enough to listen in. Still, she cast the spell Harry had found in Snape's old book, to prevent eavesdropping.

He shrugged. "Luna knows everything. It's almost enough to make me believe some of her batshit theories. But I think there can't be anything to them," he added, talking more to himself than her.

"You didn't tell her?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Not until she told me," he said, taking his cup back and finishing it off.

Hermione smiled. "You're a good friend."

"I am, yeah. A bloody good boyfriend, too." He looked around, and rose to his feet. "Which reminds me, I've got a girlfriend to go see." He grinned at her and walked toward the door on surprisingly steady feet.

Hermione levitated Ginny up to her dormitory, and then slipped back out while the remaining revelers were distracted. She may have set off a few fireworks to help in that particular area.


	35. Plans

"You're sure about this?" Hermione asked, as she walked down the stairs with Dean a few weeks later. "Absolutely sure?"

"Yes," he said, shaking his head at her concern.

Hermione studied him. "The four of us are going to go out to dinner, and watch a film. Together."

He nodded. "Yeah, Hermione. It was my idea. I know what I'm signing up for."

"Ok," she said. "Just remember that that it _was_ your idea."

He cocked his head. "You know, I can almost remember saying something exactly like that just a minute ago. But, nope, it's gone. What was it you wanted me to remember?"

She huffed out an annoyed breath, but didn't comment, because she knew as well as he did that she was being ridiculous.

They picked Luna up along the way, and met Draco in the Room of Requirement. When they got in, both Dean and Luna looked around, stunned.

Not a great deal had changed since they'd first entered the room, but some things had. The green hangings had been replaced with midnight blue, and accented with a few odd items. A print from one of the museums they had been to hung on one of the walls, a movie poster hung on another.

Hermione saw Dean note them both.

Draco offered his hand first to Luna, then to Dean. "Hermione says you've never been to a film," he said, directing his inquiry toward Luna.

"I haven't," she agreed. "But Dean's been telling me all about them. They sound wonderful."

Draco nodded. "They are. We're going to see an animated movie this time, because Hermione thinks I'm five," he added with a smile.

"Because I think you missed out on animated movies when you were five," she corrected. "Just like you missed out on theme parks. And aren't you glad I rectified that?" she asked

He smiled at Luna. "Has he told you about those?"

"He was very jealous," she said, taking Dean's hand. "Apparently it was one of his favorite places, growing up. He says he'll take me, if we can sort out how you two sneak out."

"It's simple," Hermione said. "And you both know already, really." She checked to make sure the coast was clear, then led them all into the hall. Once the room had had sufficient time to change, she led them back into the version containing the tunnel.

"Well, that was obvious," Dean said. "Now I feel like an idiot."

"It probably wouldn't have worked if you'd tried," Draco said, "given how often we're in here."

Dean raised an eyebrow, and Hermione blushed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean that," he said. "We spend most of our time in here. Studying," he pointed out, "talking."

"Shagging," Dean coughed.

Hermione laughed as Draco actually blushed. "Shagging," she agreed, taking his hand and pulling him down the tunnel.

"So," Dean asked. "Should we start a schedule, for who can use the room when?"

Draco barked out a laugh, and Dean tried to clarify his mean as Luna – for the first time in Hermione's memory – actually looked a bit embarrassed. "I meant for sneaking off."

"Of course," Hermione agreed readily. "We're just right up here."

She led them out into the pub, where Draco went to speak with Aberforth. Hermione never saw the actual exchange, but she knew Draco bribed him for the use of the tunnel.

As soon as they could, they apparated to London. Hermione guided them all to the restaurant where she had made reservations.

Luna eyed the cars with fascination. "They're quite interesting, aren't they?" she said, looking over at Dean.

"I suppose," he agreed, and Hermione knew he was looking at the cars, and seeing cars, and not really able to understand her amazement.

Draco smiled at her. "You're better than me," he said. "My first time, I tried to pretend they didn't exist."

"Why would you want to?" Luna asked, reaching out to touch one. "They're-" she broke off with a small yelp as the alarm sounded. Dean laughed, and pulled Luna toward him, while Hermione dealt with the alarm. They set off again with a much chastened Luna.

"It's fine, love," Dean comforted her. "It's just an alarm. They have them so thieves can't steal the car."

"But I wasn't going to steal it," she pointed out.

Dean shrugged. "The alarm doesn't know that. It just knows someone touched the car, without first turning the alarm off."

"It doesn't _think_, mind," Draco threw in. Dean shot him a look, but he seemed unperturbed.

"So it hasn't got a brain or anything?" Luna asked, directing her question at Draco.

He shook his head. "No. It's got sensors, that's all. It's all electronic." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed it to her. "Most everything in the muggle world seems to run on electricity," he explained, as Dean shot Hermione a surprised look. She waved him over, and he reluctantly left Luna listening to Draco explain how the phone worked.

"Let him explain it," Hermione advised. "He remembers what this all felt like. We can't really imagine, since all of this is old news to us."

"I guess," he said, sounding unsure.

They both looked over at the other two. "See, if you do this," Draco said, drawing his finger across it, "it has sensors that know what you've done." He then pressed another button. "It's all down to muggle invention." He grinned. "You'll understand better, after we've seen the film."

"We're here," Hermione interrupted, gesturing to the restaurant they were approaching. She led the way inside and spoke with the host, who seated them immediately.

Luna seemed more comfortable, as the restaurant wasn't all that dissimilar to those in the magical world. She and Dean had a whispered conversation, while Hermione turned to engage Draco.

"Thank you for showing her your phone," she murmured. He simply shrugged it away. "Are you excited for the film?"

"Curious," he said.

She smiled. When the waiter came, they ordered drinks and appetizers.

"They used to make animated films entirely by hand," she said, to the table at large. "The animators would do thousands and thousands of sketches, and then they would all be compiled into a film."

"What do they do now?" Luna asked, curiously.

"Now they use computers for a lot of it," Dean explained. "There are still animators, but they can do a lot through computer animation."

"Oh," Luna said. "So this film we're seeing tonight?"

"Madagascar," Hermione supplied.

"Is it done by hand or . . . the other way?" she asked.

"It's a little of both, I think, really," Dean explained. "They do some of the drawings by hand, but a lot of it is done through computers."

"But, enough about our plans for tonight," Hermione said. "I want to know what you two have planned for after we graduate."

Dean was about to answer, when the server appeared again to take their order. Hermione got the pasta, while Draco and Dean both ordered steak, and Luna decided on salmon.

"I'm not sure, really," Dean said, answering Hermione's question. "I know everyone up at the ministry is all for that, but I just don't see it for me."

"What do you see?" Hermione asked, taking a bit of bread.

He shrugged. "I don't know, exactly. Anything to do with quidditch would be nice, but I haven't got the talent for an actual career in it."

"That's not true," Luna said, patting his arm. "I think you're wonderful."

He smiled at that. "That's how I can tell you're my girlfriend." He shrugged. "I guess I'd like writing about it, if I could get a job doing sports reporting or something."

"That'd be brilliant," Hermione agreed.

"What about you, love?" Dean asked, looking over at Luna.

She smiled. "Oh, I want to explore. I've read that there are places in South America where you can find actual Correllianes."

"What are Correllianes?" Draco asked.

"Well-" Luna began, but Hermione interrupted apologetically.

"We probably shouldn't get too specific here," Hermione said, giving the muggles around them a significant look.

"Oh," Luna said, covering her mouth. "Of course."

"What about you?" Dean asked. "What are you going to do?"

Hermione smiled up at the waiter as he brought their food. "Me? I haven't really decided. There are so many options, after all."

She forked up some pasta and then paused, catching Draco watching her. "What?" she demanded.

"Nothing. I just think you're the only person I know who would probably be genuinely enthusiastic about doing almost _anything_." He shook his head and cut his steak.

Hermione chewed her bite, thinking over his statement. "But there are so many interesting things to do," she said. "I could work for the ministry, or I could go into research. I could study healing, or work with," she dropped her voice, "muggles."

"But there's nothing in there you would prefer to do?" Dean asked.

Hermione shrugged. "Not really, as long as it's important," she decided. "I'll just have to see where life takes me, I suppose."

"What about you, Draco?" Luna asked.

Draco paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and then lowered it thoughtfully. "I don't know. I expect I won't have too many options. But then, Malfoys don't generally work."

Dean snorted. "What do they do?"

Draco shrugged. "Inherit money, and manage it. I suppose you could call that work," he said. "But it's not exactly what it is, is it? Mostly they try to make more money, and play at politics. I don't have any desire to get involved in politics, and I've quite enough money to last several lifetimes." He took a drink. "I've been thinking a bit about university."

Dean nodded, as Draco took a bite. "That makes sense. Lots of people go to university to sort out what they want to do."

Hermione and Luna both stared at them, the former in shock and the latter in bafflement.

"What's university?" Luna asked finally.

Dean gave her a confused look, then froze. "Do you mean muggle university?" he asked.

Draco nodded. "I like muggle technology. It'd be interesting to study it." He smiled over at Hermione. "I could finally understand how telephones and computers work."

"You could," she said, still too stunned to manage anything else.

He studied her for a moment. "You don't like the idea?" he asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head quickly. "That's not it at all. I think it's a great idea."

"I still don't know what we're talking about," Luna pointed out, though she seemed surprisingly tranquil about it.

"It's muggle school," Dean explained. "After muggles graduate from our secondary schools – which would be around the same age we graduate from Hogwarts – muggles go to, or, well, they can go to, universities or colleges, where they continue their education."

"Oh," she said. "That doesn't seem so surprising then. That seems like a good idea," she said, giving Draco an encouraging smile.

"The surprising part is that it's entirely muggle," Dean pointed out.

"Yes, but he likes muggles. And I imagine he'll enjoy having a fresh start," she added. She looked at Hermione. "Would you go with him?" she asked dreamily.

Hermione blinked. "Umm . . . I don't know that I intend to go to university," she said, glancing over at Draco. "But, I don't see it being a problem for me." She took his hand, twined her fingers with his. "And I can see why Draco would want to do it."

"I expect your mum and dad will have something to say about that," Dean pointed out, taking another bite of his steak.

"I expect my mother and father will have a lot to say about a lot. I'm through letting it dictate my choices."

"Here, here," Dean said, raising his glass.

Laughing, they all brought they glasses forward, clinking them together in honor of Draco's new path in life.


	36. Easter

Easter break found Hermione and Draco at the Langham. Truth be told, it found Draco at the Langham, and Hermione rolling her eyes at him.

"Honestly, Draco," she was saying, as he went about selecting clothes. "Why did you get an entire suite, and one with two bedrooms, at that? There's only one of you." She lounged on the bed while he shuffled about in the dressing room.

He pulled a shirt off a hanger and walked back out to hold it up in front of a mirror. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I suppose I like the space." He shot her a quick grin. "Anyway, I'd think you'd be glad. It means I'm not assuming you'll want to share with me."

"Why would I stay here if I didn't want to share with you?" she asked, watching him try the shirt on.

"Well, you haven't yet," he said, studying himself in the mirror. "Despite all my best efforts."

"I like that one," Hermione said, appreciating the way the shirt fit across his shoulders.

He glanced back at her. "You just like it when I don't wear black."

She smiled. "I do, yes," she said, wandering over to the tray of food on the nearby desk. "But I like the blue. It looks nice on you." She picked up a bit of cheese and bread off the plate and nibbled on it. "I still can't believe you think 300 pounds is a reasonable price for a shirt, but . . ."

"We all have our crosses to bear," he said in a dry voice. "Do I look appropriate?" he asked, finally, gesturing to himself.

She raised both eyebrows. "You look lovely, but I think you've forgotten we're just going over to Luna's house for a bit of a chat with her and Dean."

He glanced back at the mirror. "Do you think I should wear robes?"

Hermione laughed. "I had no idea you spent so much time primping," she said. "You don't at school."

He shrugged. "Our attire is required at school. There's nothing to choose between. It's very clear what's appropriate."

Hermione didn't really have a response for that, so she merely continued her snacking.

"Anyway," he said. "You look quite nice."

Hermione glanced down at her dress. Never having been a fan of Easter colors, she had gone with white instead. She wore a simple sleeveless dress with a hemline a handful of inches above her knees. She was very pleased that Draco liked it. His taste in fashion was much keener than her own.

"Thank you," she said. "And I think you can wear whatever you like." She walked over and gave him a quick kiss. "I think it's sweet you're so excited about your muggle clothes."

He nodded. "I'm rather pleased with this Armani bloke," he said, examining his shirt. "He knows what he's about."

Hermione just smiled and shook her head. She supposed she couldn't fault him for being exactly who he was. She wandered around the bedroom a bit, returning to her earlier point. "Really, Draco. This suite is the size of a house. What were you thinking?"

He shrugged again, electing not to respond. Then he reconsidered. "Is that why you haven't stayed the night? Because you think it's too much? Because I'll gladly go take out the shoddiest room I can find, preferably next to whatever the muggle equivalent of Knockturn Alley is, if you'd prefer."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No you wouldn't," she said. "And you know perfectly well I haven't stayed because my parents would be upset about it."

"They let you stay at Weasley's, didn't they?" he asked. He didn't sound particularly upset about the concept, just baffled at the distinction.

"They let me stay at the Weasley _Family's_ house, before Ron and I were dating. That's very different from letting me stay in a hotel with my boyfriend," she explained.

He grinned at the term boyfriend, and seemed entirely mollified by the word alone.

"Are you ready, then?" she asked, when he pulled on a jacket.

He nodded once. "I think so."

"Good," Hermione said. "I'm looking forward to this. A quiet dinner with Luna and Dean will be a nice change from the constant tension my parents have been."

He put his arm around her and kissed her on the forehead, as they both apparated to the appointed spot outside Luna's house. As soon as the world righted itself, they spotted something they didn't expect: Neville Longbottom not ten feet away, chatting to Hannah Abbot.

"Hermione," he called, sounding truly happy to see her.

Hermione shared one quick, surprised glance with Draco, and then started forward to meet her old housemate.

"I haven't seen you in ages," Neville said, as he pulled her into a hug. "And who's your-" he began, but broke off the moment he recognized Draco.

"Longbottom," Draco said, inclining his head politely.

Hermione closed her eyes, acknowledging to herself the hell she was in for over the next few hours.

When she opened them, she found both Neville and Hannah staring at them in shock.

"So, how have you two been?" Hermione asked, in a falsely bright voice.

Neville blinked several times, and then finally managed to refocus on her. "Uh. Yeah. Good. Yeah," he stammered.

Hannah nodded. "Yes," she said.

"What have you been up to?" Hermione persevered, in an overly cheery voice. Draco placed a hand at the small of her back, and though she could see her old friends focus on it, she found it oddly calming.

"Umm . . . Ministry," Neville managed, with a sharp nod.

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, beginning to sound almost normal. "I remember. You've been helping with the reconstruction efforts."

He nodded.

"And rounding up Death Eaters," Hannah put in, and then – upon glancing at Draco – turned several shades of scarlet.

"Yes, of course," Hermione said. "I know they wanted all hands on deck."

"How is," Neville paused to clear his throat after his voice had attained untold heights. "How is it, being back at Hogwarts?" he managed in a more level tone.

"Good," Hermione said, automatically glancing at Draco, who favored her with the slightest of amused looks. "Good. I'm quite glad I made the decision to go back."

"Good," Neville nodded. "Good."

"Good," Hannah agreed.

"Well," Hermione said, gesturing vaguely toward Luna's house. "We should probably go say hello to Luna and Dean."

"Of course," Hannah said, looking extremely relieved to be shot of them.

Neville nodded his agreement. "Perhaps we can catch up sometime," he added, sounding genuine, if not entirely comfortable.

Hermione smiled. "I'd like that," she said. Then she and Draco turned and started up toward the house.

"Well," Draco said, with a sigh. "So," he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not a four person affair after all."

"No," Hermione agreed. "Apparently not."

"We could always go," he offered. "I'm sure you could persuade Longbottom to keep his mouth shut."

She looked over at him. "No," she said. "What was the point of easing people into it if we were never going to tell them? I just wish I hadn't had it all sprung on me quite so suddenly."

"And Luna didn't mention anything about this being a large gathering?" he asked, sounding more curious than annoyed.

Hermione shook her head. "Though, on reflection, I think I just assumed it was only us, since she specifically said she wanted both of us to come. It didn't occur to me she'd be setting us up."

"She might not have been," Draco said, being fair. "This is Luna, we're talking about. She might not have even realized it could be a problem."

"Dean should have warned us, at the very least," Hermione muttered.

Draco gave one short laugh. "As much as it entertains me to see your very respectable temper turned on others," he said, hands still in his pockets, "I think it's far more likely that Luna never mentioned she had invited me. He may have made the same assumption you did, that she'd be aware of our particular . . . situation. And she may have not thought of it at all." He shrugged. "At any rate, I don't see Thomas hanging you out to dry."

"We'll see," Hermione cautioned, darkly.


	37. Accepting

"Have you seen Seamus yet?" Ron asked excitedly. They were seated in some modified lawn chairs. The seats would have looked more at home in a living room, as they were something closer to armchairs than anything else, but they had obviously been designed for use outside.

"No," Ginny said. "I'm sure he'll be here, though. It looks like Luna invited the whole school," she added.

"Well, I, for one, appreciate it," Harry declared, his arm around Ginny. "I haven't seen most of this lot in ages."

"You see half of them at the Ministry every day!" Ginny said.

He shrugged. "I doubt half work at the Ministry," he said. "And a lot of people work there. We don't see them all every day. We don't even see all the Aurors every day," he added.

"Yeah, Gin. It's not like we just sit around gabbing at each other all day, like we're in school," Ron threw in. "We've got important things to do."

While Harry and Ginny might have taken the mickey for his tone, they couldn't do much as his current date fawned over him.

She was a blonde, with an hourglass figure that she was perfectly happy to show off in one of the tightest dresses Ginny had ever seen. She glanced around again, wondering for the hundredth time if Hermione was going to show up.

Ginny hadn't had a chance to ask if she had been invited, because it wasn't the sort of thing she could bring up with Harry and Ron standing at her back. And Dean's reception of the pair had been less than warm. She had a feeling they may not have made the guest list if Dean had had a say.

She looked over at Harry. She knew he, at least, had been anxious to see Hermione. But she also knew he was afraid of actually having her show up. Neither of them had any idea how she and Ron would respond to being in close quarters for the first time since their breakup.

She glared over at Ron and his bint and wished he'd had the sense to leave her behind. She turned back to Harry, ready to suggest they go get a drink, when she spotted something that made her breath catch.

"Bloody Hell," she cursed. "Damn, damn, damn." Harry raised his eyebrows, as Ginny quickly decided what to do. "Alright," she said, getting Harry's attention. She chucked an empty cup at her brother to drag him away from his date's embrace. "I probably should have told you about this," she said quickly. "But nothing was confirmed, and honestly I didn't really think it was either of your business, but since they're here now, I should probably warn you."

"Ginny," Harry said, looking bemused. "What is it?"

"Right," Ron agreed. "Unless Voldemort has returned from the dead," he added, making his date squeal, and enjoying her little cuddle afterward, "I don't see what you could be so worked up about."

"Hermione has been seeing someone," she said, getting it out in a rush. She would probably have gone for the "friend" angle, but she noted Hermione's hand in Draco's as they made their way toward Luna, amid a sea of stares and whispers. She could see current Hogwarts students filling in their former housemates all over the place.

Ron let of a loud laugh. "Why should that bother us?" he said, tugging his date closer. But he craned his neck, looking to see where his ex might be. When he did spot her, he just shrugged. "It's good she's moved on," he said, very casually.

Harry studied Ron for a moment, but then turned back to Ginny. "Why in the world did you think it would bother me?" he asked.

Ginny swallowed. "Because the person she's been seeing is Draco Malfoy," she said, all in a rush.

Harry's head snapped back like he'd been hit, and Ron nearly dumped his girlfriend out of his lap, turning to look at the pair again.

"No way," he said. "She's gotten someone to use polyjuice or something," he said. "She's just trying to make me jealous." Having solved the mystery to his satisfaction, he turned back to Ginny with a grin. "She did the same thing when I was dating Lavender."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "She used polyjuice potion on people to try to make you jealous?"

"No," Ron said matter-of-factly. "But she went out with Cormac McClaggen to try to make me jealous."

"How long has she been seeing him?" Harry asked in a quiet voice.

Ginny shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. They haven't exactly admitted that they're officially together," she said. "But they spend loads of time with each other."

Ron scoffed. "Maybe it is really him, and they've come up with a scheme to try to get at me." He shrugged it off. "Honestly, though, I feel bad for her. Imagine having to put up with the ferret," he said, shivering in disgust.

Ginny considered trying to convince him he had it all wrong, but decided against it. If he wanted to make a fool of himself, that was his business.

She looked over at Harry, who was eying the pair currently talking to Dean and Luna.

* * *

"Wow," Dean said, spotting Hermione and Draco. "You've really decided to come out with a bang, eh?"

"Less '_decided'_ and more," Hermione began, but paused, looking for the right word. She glanced at Draco.

"Accepted?" he suggested.

"Yes, I suppose," Hermione said.

Dean stared at them. Then he glanced surreptitiously at Luna, who was finishing up a conversation with a sixth year.

"So you didn't realize she had invited the DA?" he asked.

"Didn't realize she had invited anyone but us," Draco said, a soothing hand once again settling on Hermione's back.

"Oh," Dean said. He glanced at his girlfriend again. "I am _so_ sorry," he whispered. "She must not have thought about it."

"Hi," Luna called out, coming to greet them. She hugged both Hermione and Draco in turn. "I'm so glad you came."

"Yeah," Hermione mumbled, torn between being moved by the warm welcome for Draco and wanting to take Luna to task for thoughtlessness.

"They didn't know anyone else was going to be here," Dean said, in an undertone to Luna.

She looked surprised. "But, of course. I invited nearly everyone," she said in her signature dreamy voice.

Hermione caught Draco's amused look and had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "It would have been good to have a warning," she said.

"Why?" Luna asked.

Draco chuckled quietly. "Why indeed?" he said, turning to Hermione.

"Oh, shut it," she said, hitting him lightly. "Because we haven't told anyone we've been dating," she said to Luna. "Except the pair of you."

Luna looked genuinely surprised. "But surely everyone knows," she said. "You two are like two kneazles in a bin."

Hermione was so thrown by Luna's odd phrase she didn't even bother to argue the original point. "Well, everyone knows now," she said. "So we might as well just . . . soldier on."

"Most people would say make the best of it," Draco teased.

"Oh, there's no best to be made, but I'm certain we can survive it at least," Hermione said. Then a thought struck her, and she turned to Dean and Luna. "The DA?" she said. "Tell me," and she had her answer from the look on Dean's face, but continued anyway, clinging to rapidly dwindling hope, "that Harry and Ron aren't here."

Dean shrugged apologetically. "I wouldn't have invited them," he said.

Hermione wasn't sure what anyone might have said to that, but no one had a chance to respond, because the people around them all began whispering feverishly. A lane cleared and Ron, with a blond in tow and an uncomfortable looking Harry and Ginny a few steps behind, approached them.

"Alright?" he said, full of cheery bravado. "Hermione!" he said, as though he'd just spotted her. "Haven't seen you in ages." He nodded to himself. "Hear you're dating Malfoy now."

Hermione nodded, linking hands with Draco and pulling him forward a step. "I am, yes." Draco ended up right behind her, a comforting presence at her back.

Ron did some more serious nodding. "Sure, then you should probably snog him," he said, a smile on his face. "Since you're dating and all."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?" she said, a cross between baffled and offended. She could feel Draco struggling not to laugh next to her.

"Well, just that you're dating, so you're probably comfortable snogging," Ron said again, directing his grin at Draco this time.

To Hermione's surprise, Draco completely lost his composure, and began laughing quietly – nearly in silence – at her back, his face turned into her neck.

"Shut it," she hissed, but he only laughed harder at that, so she rounded on him. "What about this is funny?" she demanded.

To his credit, he tried to stop, but one glance at Ron set him off again. "I'm sorry. It's funny," he said, in amused exasperation. "You have to admit, it's funny. He's just so proud of himself." He shook his head, and seemed almost to have to wipe tears from his eyes.

Hermione glanced at Ron, who looked less sure of himself now. "Pretty proud of myself, yeah," he said, sticking his chest out. "Some of us actually have things to be proud of," he said. "Like fighting on the right side in the war."

Draco seemed less amused by that. "I suppose so," he acknowledged. His hand trailed down Hermione's back, and she spared him one concerned glance before deciding he was probably fine. She knew the war was something Draco didn't like to think about, but he wasn't going to be able to avoid mention of it in this crowd.

"Are you done, Ron?" she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. "Don't want to snog him, eh?" he chortled. Then he shrugged, turned on his heel, and walked off.

Hermione's eyes met Harry's for the briefest of moments before he went to follow his friend. Ginny lingered a moment longer.

"I'm so sorry," she said, looking entirely genuine.

Hermione shrugged. "It's not your doing," she said.

Ginny continued to look miserable as she moved to catch up with an impatient Harry.


	38. Reactions

"Well, that was fun," Hermione said, after Harry and Ron walked away.

Dean stared at their retreating backs. "I could go hit him for you," he offered. "Or get him with a tripping jinx, at the least."

"It's fine," Hermione said, waving it away. "Not exactly what I expected, but I suppose I should have." She turned to Draco. "Laughing may not have been the _best_ response," she added.

He shrugged. "It was funny." He met her eyes, lips curving just slightly. "You have to admit it was at least a little funny."

"I don't have to admit anything of the sort," she said, crossing her arms.

Draco glanced at Dean, who snorted, causing Hermione's head to snap around. "You, too, huh?" she said, staring down the other boy, who broke out laughing as well, setting Draco off again.

"He's right," Dean said, when he could catch his breath. "It was a little bit funny."

* * *

"What was that?" Ginny demanded, rounding on Harry as soon as they'd gotten a good distance away.

Harry stared at her. "What was what?" he responded, voice rising as well. "I didn't do anything."

"You never _do_ anything!" she shouted. "That's the problem. Ron acts like a complete prat, and you just stand by and let him, even though Hermione was every bit as much your friend as he was."

"I'm supposed to defend her when she's dating Draco Malfoy?" Harry shouted.

"You were supposed to have been there for her when Ron broke her heart," Ginny snapped. "You were supposed to have been a good friend. And you certainly don't have any right to act betrayed now, when you made it perfectly clear you didn't give a damn about her," Ginny continued.

"I never-"

"Never what? Never tried to comfort her? Never told Ron he was out of line? Never bothered to even worry if she was ok?"

"I worried if she was ok." Harry responded. "But if I'd known she was off with Malfoy-"

"You what?" Ginny nearly screamed. "Wouldn't have worried?" she demanded, voice dropping. "Nice. Ron can shag everything that moves while they're still together, and you'll stand by him without hesitation. But Hermione dates someone you don't like-"

"It's not 'someone I don't like.' It's Draco _bloody_ Malfoy. How many times did he call her a mudblood? Bloody hell, Ginny. He was a Death Eater. And now she's walking around holding hands with him."

"From what I can see," Ginny said, through clenched teeth, "he's treated her a hell of a lot better than Ron ever did." She shoved away from him. "And I don't even like the git," she called over her shoulder as she stomped away.

* * *

_A/N Shortest update ever. I know. It's actually more to commit me to update soon than anything else. I have at least two or three more chapters written. I've just got to edit them and post them . . . and then write a bit more. So if I don't have at least one of them up within 24 hours, you have my permission to lay the smackdown. PS Sorry if you got excited there was an update and then all you got was this. But, BONUS, I'm not actually convinced you people have read all the chapters. I often post several chapters at a time. And when I checked out my legacy story stats a minute ago, there were lots of weird valleys and peaks. Almost as if some of you jump in on the last chapter and don't realize I've posted two before it. Anyway . . . I could also just be reading those wrong. I don't play close enough attention to them to know what the usual deal is.  
_


	39. Worth Choosing

As the party ran on, and people Hermione had always been friendly with continued to give her a wide berth, she became more and more depressed. After a while, she and Draco wandered down by the river that ran across Luna's property to take a little breather.

She had made her choice, and she wouldn't have chosen differently, but she would have liked to believe her friends cared more for her than to throw her over the moment she did something they didn't approve of.

Then again, maybe she'd never really had friends. She'd never been close with the girls in her year. And she'd really only ended up friends with Harry and Ron in the first place because they'd been so mean to her that she'd nearly gotten herself killed.

Everyone else she could have counted as friends had all been through Harry and Ron, now that she thought about it. It shouldn't have been so terribly surprising that people sided with them rather than her.

She looked over to find Draco studying her silently. "You've got too many thoughts in your head," he said quietly.

"I thought you liked that?" she teased, without much heart. "Isn't it what makes my hair so mad?"

"You know," he said, surveying her. "Your hair seems just a little tame at the moment." Before he even finished the sentence, he had swept her up into his arms.

She shrieked as he walked into the water. "Draco," she screamed. "Draco, put me down!"

"Sure," he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice as he lowered her head-first toward the water.

"Draco!" Her hair led the charge, dipping first into the frigid water, to be followed by the top of her head. She breathed a sigh of relief when he lifted her back up again. And then screamed when he tossed her fully into the water.

"Draco!" she shouted, struggling to the surface. "You complete arse!" He only laughed at her though, standing waist deep in the cold water. "You are such a git," she muttered.

He grinned. "Put things into perspective, though, didn't it?"

She huffed out a breath and shook her head. "I have no idea why I put up with you," she said, starting out of the water.

"I've been saying that for ages," he agreed calmly, starting to follow her lead. Without looking, she directed a hex at him that had him pulled under as well. When he came up, he was grinning.

"That's a good one," he said. "You'll have to teach me it."

She rolled her eyes and set about drying her clothes. While she had no intention of telling him, his antics had pulled her out of her gloom and reminded her that she knew of at least one person who liked her exactly as she was. Three, really, because she could count Luna and Dean firmly in that category as well.

"You should leave the hair," he murmured, watching her. "I like it wet. It reminds me of how you look when you've just gotten out of the shower, all clean and wet and smelling delicious."

She shook her head, but couldn't help smiling slightly as they both finished up their drying spells.

* * *

"How long has that been going on?" Neville asked, causing Ginny and the other two to turn from their study of the frolicking pair.

"Neville!" Ginny, said, rising to hug him. He returned it comfortably, looking more at ease with himself than Ginny could ever remember.

Ron and Harry, who was still brooding about his confrontation with Ginny, just nodded at their colleague.

"So?" he said, raising his eyebrows at Ginny, who just shrugged.

"No one really knows. They've been spending time together for a few months now," she said, ignoring Ron's snort. "But I think it's probably been going on longer than that. Malfoy's been almost . . . nice, this year. Nearly the whole year." She made a face. "It's really disconcerting."

"But she never said anything about them being together?" Neville, asked, studying the two as Hermione began shrieking. Ron stirred slightly, and then slumped angrily back into his seat when he realized they were wrestling good-naturedly.

"No," she said. "But Hermione hasn't wanted to see too much of me," she said, with a significant look at Ron. "You could ask Dean," she said. "They've gotten pretty close. Honestly, I thought they'd be getting together, before he started with Luna."

Neville raised his eyebrows. "I can't picture Hermione and Dean," he said.

"They're pretty tight," Ginny said. "Still are, actually. And Dean has seemed surprisingly ok with Draco, right from the start, which makes me think the first time people saw them studying together probably wasn't their first . . . friendly interaction."

"Huh," Neville said, rocking back on his heels. "It's an odd choice for her."

"I'm not his biggest fan," Ginny said, in a low voice, "and I've been hoping really hard this was all a dream." She jerked her head in the direction of the pair, now drying their clothes. "But I don't seem to be waking up, and . . ." she made a helpless gesture. "Hermione seems better. She was in pretty bad shape when she showed up at the start of the year." She shrugged. "If he's making her happy, I guess I can keep my mouth shut about it. And," she said as she flicked her hair behind her shoulder, "if he hurts her, I'll shred the skin from his bones."

Neville raised his eyebrows and glanced at Ron, causing Ginny's color to rise. "Well," he said. "I suppose she's entitled to make her own choices. And if she's chosen Malfoy," he said, shrugging, "I have to assume there's something there worth choosing."

With that, he strolled off to go meet up with the pair as they came back from the river.


	40. Neville

Hermione looked up in surprise as Neville approached. She glanced at Draco, wondering if Neville's newfound confidence might backfire on her. She couldn't picture the sweet-natured boy she'd gone to school with starting a fight, but it never paid to assume too much.

Neville stopped just in front of them. "Hey," he said, smiling a bit shyly. Then he cleared his throat. "Sorry about before. You caught me off guard a bit." And then, to Hermione's great surprise, he reached out to shake Draco's hand.

"Can't blame you for that," Draco said, clasping it calmly. "I'm sure I'm the last person you would have expected to come with Hermione."

Neville met his eyes. "That's true," he said. "But the thing about Hermione is, she's a smart girl. If I was willing to trust her to save Trevor," he said, glancing at Hermione with a slight smile, "I suppose I can trust her to choose her own dates."

Draco inclined his head. "It's a wise man who knows when his intelligence has been outmatched," he said, with a glance at Hermione. "I'll leave you two to catch up," he murmured. Then he turned back to Neville. "Longbottom," he said, nodding to the other boy.

Neville nodded back and turned to watch him walk away. "I honestly can't tell," he said after a moment, "if he just insulted me or complimented you."

Hermione smiled slightly at that. "Complimented me," she said. "When he insults people, there's always a sneer to accompany it."

She looked over to find Neville studying her. "Are you going to tell me I shouldn't waste my time with blokes who go about insulting people?" she asked in a weary voice.

"No," Neville said, after a moment. "It's not as though Ron was exactly innocent on that score."

"No, I suppose not," Hermione agreed.

"Ginny says he's been polite, basically the whole year," Neville acknowledged.

"Ron?" Hermione's eyes sought out the redhead. "I suppose-" She broke off as Neville began laughing.

"Not Ron. You can tell she thinks Ron's been a right git. Hard to blame her when he brought Cecily Archelaus to this little get together," he went on, shaking his head. "But no, I meant Draco. Ginny says he's been almost nice this year. She finds it very disturbing."

"I can imagine," Hermione murmured.

Neville raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to reform him?" he asked, making a heroic effort to keep the question neutral.

Hermione snorted. "I'm not foolish enough to believe that men change for women," she said. "I do think, however, that I would never have been interested in the first place if he wasn't already changing. And, being in transition, I suppose does make him _somewhat_ impressionable." She rolled her eyes at Neville's look. "I've made a case that muggles aren't at all what he thought them to be, and think I've been rather successful in the regard. And since the entire philosophy of the Death Eaters – their whole justification for the war – hinged on muggles being little more than animals, he's had a great deal to reflect on and reconsider."

"And you're willing to forgive him?" Neville asked. This question was not neutral, but neither was it accusatory.

"Do you know . . ." she began, looking over at Draco, who now sat with Dean. Draco had an iPod in his hand, and Hermione could only assume that the unlikely pair were discussing music. "Do you know," she repeated, "I don't know that I felt I had anything to forgive him for, really? Not as far as the war was concerned. I never really believed any part of it was his choice."

Neville studied the pair as well. "What about the rest?" he asked. "Malfoy was never any nicer to you than he was to me."

"No," she said quietly. She turned serious eyes on Neville. "No, I don't suppose he was. But then, the thing about children is that they aren't really all that admirable, when I comes right down to it. Some are, of course, but most aren't when they're in that phase. We aren't born with a conscience. That's something we develop over time, with guidance from our parents, our teachers. I find it hard to fault Draco for being a spoiled, malicious child when his parents taught him to be exactly that." She shrugged. "He found himself at a turning point, and rather than continue down that path, he . . . considered the possibility of embracing others. And the further he goes in a different direction, the less I think he wants anything to do with who he used to be."

Neville made a noncommittal noise, as he continued watching Draco and Dean in animated discussion.

"Honestly, I think you of all people would understand," Hermione said.

Neville turned to her, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "How do you suppose?" he asked. And again he managed to sound more interested than offended.

"The war changed you, as well. You grew into yourself," she said, smiling slightly when color rose into his cheeks. "You did. You realized, I think, that leaders aren't always born. Sometimes it's simply the person who is willing to take the risk, who is willing to stand up. You, who had always seen yourself as weak, as timid, as powerless, _you_ become a leader. You rallied people to your cause. You were willing to fight, even if it meant losing, even if it meant dying." She smiled brightly at him. "You, Neville Longbottom, became a hero."

He cleared his throat, eyes on the ground now. "Well," he muttered, clearly unsure how to respond.

"Do you think anyone expected it of you?" she asked

He looked up. "No," he said slowly.

"Did you expect it of yourself?" she pressed.

"No," he said again. "I think I was probably the most surprised of all."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I wasn't," she said. "You've always thought too little of yourself."

He considered her for a long moment. "And you put him in the same boat?" he asked, in a level tone.

She thought over the question. "Yes and no. There are plenty of ways where he thought rather too_ much_ of himself." Her voice dropped, and it seemed she was talking more to herself. "But they weren't the important ones." Then she shook her head. "My point wasn't that you two are alike. I wouldn't even begin to suggest that. I was only pointing out that we were all at an age where we begin to change, begin to sort out who we are going to be. And in the midst of that, we faced the sort of horror that no one should ever have to endure. That sort of test can define you, remake you. I think in your case, it hardened your resolve, made you more willing to take chances. I think in Draco's case, it made him question his parents, and whether their choices were the right ones."

"What about in your case?" Neville asked quietly.

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose in my case, it broke me." She patted his hand when she saw his concern. "Don't worry. I think I've done a rather good job of putting myself back together again. But I was always trying a little too hard to be mature. I had my life planned out. I knew where I stood on everything. And then . . . " she raised her open hands, held them out as though water slipped through them. "Sometimes life just gets the better of you."

"You know if you ever need anything," he said. "Anything at all, I would be there in a second."

She smiled up at him. "I know." She took his hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. "It's a bit funny, really, how willing I've always been to help others, and how completely incapable I am of asking for it for myself."

"Well, hopefully that is something that has changed," Neville said, giving her a surprisingly stern look.

She shrugged. "Less than it should have, I suppose. It works out to my benefit, really, that Draco, Dean, and Luna are all so bloody observant."

"Are they?" Neville asked, surprised.

Hermione nodded. "Disturbingly so. How Luna will handle things is entirely unpredictable, but Draco and Dean both try to be as supportive as they can without scaring me off."

Neville's eyes fixed on the pair again. "I've never considered you easily frightened."

"Skittish," Hermione said quietly. "And fiercely independent."

He glanced over at her, and then looked back at the boys, who had gathered a fairly large – if surreptitious – audience. "Is that new?" he asked quietly, and she knew he wondered if it was because of Ron.

"No," she admitted. "The part about not facing things head on, perhaps. I've always been stubborn, and independent, and far too self-conscious. This summer was the first time I ever let myself avoid dealing with things, though."

"Oh?" he asked. And she had to give him credit. He had her talking more than anyone had managed all year, and with the most minimal of questions.

"I spent my summer catching up with muggle friends I hadn't seen in several years," she said. "At least, that's how I justified it. Really, I spent my summer drinking, and dancing, and staying out all night, because I didn't want to face the fact that I'd lost my two closest friends, my parents were furious with me, and every time I went to sleep, I had horrible nightmares."

"Did it help? Avoiding it?" he asked, without judgment.

"Not really," she said, shrugging. "Maybe it gave me some distance. Then again, it also made my relationship with my parents that much worse. Not only had I violated their privacy – their very minds – and sent them off with false memories, but then when they came back I was out of control for the first time in my life. We had a number of . . . unfortunate altercations."

"Are they still cross?" he asked.

She laughed at the term. "Cross doesn't begin to describe how they were. But no, not so very much anymore. I think now we're all tip-toeing around each other. Me, trying to give them the illusion that they still have authority over me, but knowing it'll shatter it if they hold too tight. Them, trying to maintain some sort of grasp without driving me away."

She shook her head. "Our world views are too different now. I can talk until I'm blue in the face, but they can't understand it. They truly wish they'd never let me go to Hogwarts." She sighed. "And I wouldn't give up magic for anything in the world."

Neville nodded. "I'd never thought about that, how hard it must be for muggleborns."

"I suppose it's hard for everyone," she said, looking over at Draco again, "in their own way."


	41. Alchemy

After Hermione and Neville parted ways, she went over to join her boys. She smiled at the thought. They both looked up as she approached.

"Did you guys really go see him in concert?" Dean asked, gesturing to the iPod.

Hermione nodded. "Yep. I think Draco is trying to learn about muggle culture through Hip Hop music. I'm not entirely sure it's the best way to go." She didn't see any other chairs nearby, so she scooted onto Draco's.

"That's not fair," Draco said, as he made room for her. "I'm also viewing it through a Rock lens. Even some Pop."

Dean laughed. "As long as you take all the lyrics with a grain of salt."

"Oh, we covered that," Hermione said, leaning back against Draco's chest. "As soon as he discovered google, I demonstrated that you can't trust everything you read."

Draco chuckled at the memory. "It hasn't put me off urban dictionary, though," he said, as Dean snorted.

Hermione was grinning a mile wide, tucked under Draco's arm and snuggled back in against his body. She wouldn't have thought anything could put a damper on her new high spirits, but that was before she met the eyes of a furious Molly Weasley.

"Bloody Hell," she cursed. "She invited the Order as well?"

"I think so, though I don't think more than the Weasleys are likely to come," Dean said. He sounded seriously annoyed. "Honestly, I won't blame you for leaving."

Hermione stared hard at a woman she'd generally got on quite will with. "If she has a problem, that's her business."

* * *

George let out a low whistle. "Is that _Hermione_ with Draco Malfoy?" he asked. Angelina looked over at the pair, and her eyes went wide.

"I think it is," she said. "Merlin, what is she thinking?"

"I would have thought she'd have more sense than that!" Mrs. Weasley huffed.

"To be fair," George said, studying Hermione and Draco, "she did date Ron. It's not as though we didn't know her taste was a bit off."

Mrs. Weasley glared at him. "Not a word of that tonight, do you hear?" she said. "This is the first time we'll be able to meet one of his girlfriends."

George shook his head. "One of," he repeated. "How that git has managed to get more than one girl to date him-"

"George!"

"My hat's off to him," he said. "Really. I just think he must have nicked some of the love potion is all."

He grinned at Angelina, who – still frightened of Mrs. Weasley – did her best to keep a straight face.

* * *

When Hermione went inside to get a drink a bit later, she ran straight into George, who was making the most of the firewhiskey.

"Shot, Hermione?" he offered.

She nearly begged off, but then decided a little liquid courage probably wouldn't hurt when it came to getting through the rest of the afternoon.

"Sure," she said finally, looking just a bit wary.

"Don't worry," he said with a grin. "You might get some dirty looks, but I've done my best to remind everyone that there was never any accounting for your taste, so we can't exactly blame you for it now."

She smiled and shook her head. "Well, I appreciate the support, however insulting it might be."

"See, that's why we always liked you, Hermione," he said, raising his glass to her as he slid her a shot of her own. "You may have been bossy, and you may have been a complete swot, but you did always have a sense of humor."

They clinked glasses and threw back their shots.

"And apparently you know how to drink," he added in an approving tone.

"It was a long summer," she acknowledged.

He nodded once, looking somber. "Yeah."

There was nothing for it, and no excusing it. Faced with his obvious grief, Hermione simply panicked. "Shall we have another?"

"I think we should!" he said, quickly pouring them another round.

She also couldn't have explained what made her do it, but it seemed necessary. "To Fred," she said, raising her glass.

He nodded. "To Fred." They both downed a second shot, and then looked around for something else to do, something that would allow them to avoid painful topics.

"Have you ever tried muggle alcohol?" Hermione asked.

George stared at her for a long moment. "I've just been unmanned by a bookworm," he said slowly. "You know about kinds of alcohol I've never even heard of."

She laughed at that. "You know, the great thing about bookworms is they're almost always willing to share their knowledge."

"Consider me a blank slate," he said, grinning. "Though I don't know where we're going to get the alcohol."

"I've got that covered," Hermione said.

She took a pouch out of her purse. In it were several glass bottles with droppers. She took two glasses from Luna's cabinets and then paused to consider her options.

"Do you want to try the different types, or do you just want me to make you something that tastes good?" she asked.

"How many chances do you think you'll get to educate me?" he asked. "I want to try each kind."

She laughed. "Well, I haven't the whole selection here, but I can cover the basics."

She took the shot glasses, did a quick cleaning spell, and then put a single drop into each one. Then she waved her wand and both we're filled with about half of a shot.

"Don't be stingy now," George chastised.

"We've got a long way to go," she said, gesturing toward the many bottles she had. "And your mother already hates me."

He shrugged. "It's more she hates Malfoy. And she's not too keen on how Ron's been acting. How she blames you for that is beyond me."

"I suppose it's easier than blaming her own son," Hermione said. Then she slid him his shot. "This is vodka."

He sipped it and immediately scrunched up his face in absolute disgust. "Your people don't know how to make good drinks," he said, knocking the rest back.

"Just wait," she said. She repeated the process with gin, tequila, rum, and triple sec. On the last one, he pronounced it slightly better.

"It's not good, mind, but at least it doesn't taste like something muggles would use to clean a toilet."

Hermione laughed. "Now, for the joys of alchemy."

"You're going to turn these into gold?" he asked, curious and very clearly disbelieving.

"Something like that," she said. Then she put a full shots of each liquor, as well as some sour and some coke, into the two glasses she'd gotten down. She added a bit of ice and a straw and passed it over to him.

"You want me to drink this?" he said. "Not one of those was actually good." He shook his head. "Muggles must have lost their ability to taste somewhere along the way."

Grinning, Hermione took a big drink. "If you can't handle it," she said in a mocking voice, finishing off the taunt with a casual shrug.

He glared at her and took a large gulp. Then he blinked. "Merlin. This is actually decent." He looked in the glass. "Did you do something to it?"

"Nope," she said. "Muggle liquor may not be the tastiest, but they've long since mastered the art of mixed drinks."

He nodded his head and continued sipping.

Hermione grinned. "Next, I'll make you Sex on the Beach," she said, enjoying herself as he choked on his drink.


	42. Stupid

The pair remained holed up in the kitchen for quite a while. When they finally stumbled back into the sunshine, they were quite a bit worse for the wear.

"Oh, bloody hell. He's onto me," Hermione said, noting immediately that her boyfriend had risen from his chair and was making a beeline for her.

"Are you not allowed to drink?" George asked. Then he shoved up his sleeves. "Don't worry. I'll handle this."

"Hermione, are you-" Draco began, but George stepped straight in front of him.

"A grown woman?" George asked. "Yes, I think she is. If she wants to get bloody pissed at," he looked vaguely toward the sun, frowned, and then fumbled with a pocket watch. He blinked at it several times. "Sometime in the afternoon," he said finally, causing Hermione to dissolve into a fit of giggles, "that's her business."

Draco stared at him in silence. "Right," he said finally. Deciding apparently that the redhead was better ignored, he returned his attention to his girlfriend. "Love, if you want to go we can go. But if you're determined to stay," he said, voice low, "it might pay to remember that you plan on working in this society."

"If you're trying to sell the idea that witches and wizards don't drink," George said, rocking back on his heels, "try selling it to someone a little less brilliant."

"When has Hermione ever been held to the same standards as the rest of us?" Draco asked.

George looked utterly stumped. Then he turned clumsily toward Hermione. "I think he's smarter than your last one."

Hermione choked out a laugh, while Draco simply stared at the lonesome twin in shock.

"Do you really think I should go?" Hermione asked, trailing a hand down the front of Draco's shirt.

Draco looked indecisive. "I think you haven't had a particularly good time," he said. "But if you want to stay, I'm happy to stay. For that matter, if you want to stay and get plastered, it wouldn't bother me one bit. But I think you'll regret it tomorrow."

She sighed. "Why do there have to be so many people here?" she asked.

Draco smiled. "Because Luna invited basically everyone she has ever met."

"You know what would be amazing?" Hermione mumbled, leaning her head against Draco's chest.

"Hmm?" he asked, stroking her hair.

"If today was just you, and me, and Dean and Luna." She turned to face George. "George could come too," she said, receiving a nod from the boy in question.

Draco smiled. "Next time," he said.

"Want to come next time, George?" she asked, leaning back against Draco, who wrapped his arms around her.

"Will I come next time?" George repeated. "Hermione, the question is will I leave."

She smiled at that. "I'm glad you were here," she said. Then she looked up at Draco. "And I think maybe I'd like to go home now."

"Ok," Draco agreed. "Do you want to find Dean and Luna, or just go?"

"Just go," Hermione said. "But I guess we should be nice." She looked around for their hosts, and was pleasantly surprised to find them with Neville. She could get all of the necessary goodbyes out of the way in one shot.

She dragged Draco over with her, and George followed after a moment of deliberation.

"I think we're going to go," Hermione said, as soon as she reached the group. She focused very, very carefully on enunciating each word. She didn't want them to realize quite how drunk she had gotten.

"Hermione's gone and gotten herself properly legless," George added helpfully. "And this one's made her feel bad about it," he said, directing a thumb at Draco.

"Thank you, George," Hermione said with dignity, still leaning against Draco, who seemed more amused than bothered by the comment.

George accepted her gratitude with perfect grace.

"Thank you for having us," Hermione continued, perversely still attempting to seem sober. The slightly wobbly hug she offered Luna gave the lie to it, but probably only for those within hearing distance of George's earlier statement.

"Of course," Luna said. "It was lovely of you to come. I'm really glad you did."

Hermione nodded and went to hug Dean.

"Sorry for the surprise audience," Dean whispered. Hermione waved it off, and was somewhat less successful in appearing sober as she did so. Apparently her arms were intrinsically connected to her sense of balance.

"Neville," Hermione said, stumbling forward to give him a hug, but before she could finish her heartfelt goodbye, a scathing voice cut in.

"Well what have you done to her then?" Ron demanded, pointing a wand at Draco.

Draco raised one pale eyebrow and said nothing.

"It's probably more a matter of what I've done to her," George tossed in, staring down into a glass he had been refilling on the sly. "Or," he winked at Hermione, "what we've done to each other."

Hermione was the only one who laughed. Dean, Luna, and Neville all looked completely flummoxed. Ron turned an interesting shade of red. And Draco smiled, just slightly.

"Well I'm not letting you leave with him, in this state," Ron continued bullishly.

Hermione's amusement vanished. "You're not letting me? YOU'RE NOT LETTING ME?" she shouted. Her yelling had attracted quite an audience. Harry and Ginny stepped in close, and seemed to be trying to extract Ron from the situation. "Nobody _lets_ me do anything, Ronald. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions."

"Oh, yeah, we've seen how that turns out. You make great decisions, Hermione," Ron shouted back. "Really great. Dating a Death Eater? What could possibly go wrong? I'm just glad he's bound to leave you when he realizes you're never going to shag him."

Draco laughed at him, a sound more hollow than amused. "Your stupidity is astounding," he said scornfully, forestalling any response Hermione might have managed through her rage. "It's really incredible. I think you might actually be the stupidest person I have ever met. No, I take that back. There is no might about it. You are."

"See," Ron said, a cross between offended and victorious. "This is what he's like. Not all these lies, not all this pretending to be nice. This is who Draco Malfoy really is. Next he'll probably call me poor and insult my family."

Draco stared at him, amazed. "Honestly? Honestly, are you actually _that_ stupid? Every time I think I've got it sorted, just exactly how stupid you are, you prove me wrong. You find new depths of stupidity."

"Do you see?" Ron said. "Now for the insults." He waved his arms, inviting Draco to lay them at his feet.

Draco laughed. "You know, you're right. I probably would say something like that, if I weren't on my best behavior."

Ron nodded knowingly, and gave Hermione a victorious look. "You see?"

"Because you would be insulted," Draco continued. "Let me repeat that. You. Would. Be. Insulted."

"Of course I would be insulted," Ron shouted at him.

"If I called you poor?" Draco asked in a scathing tone. "What exactly do you think money is worth? What do you think it's for?" he shook his head. "Merlin, sometimes I think you and my father would get along perfectly. Apparently you value the same things."

Ron's wand came up.

"What?" Draco continued. "Am I wrong? If I call you poor, are you not offended? Tell me this, Weasley, would you trade your family for mine, if you got my house, my fortune?"

"Of course not," Ron snapped. "Why would I want your cowardly father or your ugly, sneering mother?"

Draco's jaw clenched, his fingers flexed. "But isn't that what you're saying, every time you get worked up over my insults? That you're embarrassed of your family? That you're ashamed of them? That you'd like a different one?"

"That's not-"

"Do you know what money is worth?" Draco continued. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have _mountains_ of galleons, and they're all bloody worthless. What you need in life is food, a home, safety, and family. That's all. That's it." He jerked his head toward Mrs. Weasley. "Did they ever let you starve, Weasley? I can't imagine they did. I would bet every galleon I've got that either one of your parents – and probably your brothers too – would have gone hungry themselves before they ever let you starve. I bet you had enough. I bet you had more than enough. A home? It's not a mansion, but from what I understand it more than provides the necessary shelter, it's also a _home_ that welcomes you back, that makes you feel comfortable. But you know what the real trick is? Safety."

Draco stepped forward, all controlled fury. "See, I have a mansion. I have houses in other countries. I have more money than you could possibly imagine, more than you've ever dreamt of. And my parents brought Voldemort _into my home_. Where he tortured _me_ anytime _they_ did anything wrong. Your parents would die before they let anyone hurt you. And mine _sat_ _there_ while he tortured me day after day. They did nothing. The only person who tried to help me – who seemed the least bit concerned about me – was the one I was actively trying to murder. But you're upset because your parents didn't give you loads of galleons and a bloody mansion? You're embarrassed of what they had to give you, which was everything you could possibly need?"

Ron was shaking his head. "I'm not-"

"And then, at the end of the bloody war, when your side wins, and somehow you get the girl, and you've got the opportunity to do whatever you want, this is what you choose? You've got the perfect example of how to live your life, of what's important. But you choose galleons, and flattery, and slags. Which is exactly what my father would have chosen, if you're wondering."

"I didn't-"

"Didn't what? Didn't get the girl? Are you going to tell me that wasn't what you wanted from fourth year on? And rightfully so," he said, gesturing to Hermione. "Look at her. She's as close to perfect as you can get in this life. She's brilliant, and beautiful, and funny, and sweet, and kind. And good. Every time she has a choice to make – every time – she picks the one that is good, the one that is right. Every time. She's so far out of your class it's indescribable, so far above you. But you had her. And she would have stayed with you. I bet she would have _married_ you. And you throw her away for a load of slags who aren't . . . You could combine them and they wouldn't be worth a tenth of her. A thousandth." He shook his head. "So yes, I think you're bloody stupid. You're the idiot that trades a diamond for a truckload of fool's gold and thinks he's got a good deal out of it."

Draco had apparently run himself out of things to say, and glanced uncertainly back at Hermione, who looked more than a little stunned.

Dean squinted into his glass and then shrugged. "I'll drink to that," he said, lifting his glass.

* * *

_Review? Pretty please. I'm really not sure how this turned out. Really, good or bad, even if all you have to say is that you're hideously disappointed, it'd be good to know.  
_


	43. Things Said and Unsaid

When Hermione could finally break here gaze away from Draco, she found that everyone looked just as flabbergasted as she felt. The prevailing expression was shock, mixed with some other emotion. To the first, Harry added distrust, Ginny speculation, Neville approval, and George grudging respect. Molly looked entirely taken aback, and Ron's mouth was working like a fish out of water.

Only Luna and Dean seemed unsurprised. Dean looked amused, and maybe just a little bit proud of Draco. Luna was smiling serenely, as though she had been expecting such a moment for a long time.

Hermione tried to clear her head. She took one last look at the sea of stunned faces and decided she'd rather leave before they returned to their senses and decided they had a right to tell her whatever opinion they may have settled on.

"At any rate," Hermione said, focusing on Dean and Luna. "We should be going. Thank you for having us." She tossed in an uncomfortable little wave, walked quickly over to Draco, grabbed his hand, and towed him after her.

They didn't speak until they had apparated to Draco's hotel.

Hermione was surprised to find Draco quite stiff. He stepped away from her and walked directly to the minibar, where he began fixing himself a drink.

"Draco," Hermione said. But she didn't know what to say next.

Draco finished making his drink and took a sip of it. "Do you want one?" he asked.

"No thank you," Hermione responded automatically. She watched Draco nod, eyes fixed on his drink.

"I know what you're going to say," he said, looking up at her. "But I wasn't wrong. He's a bloody idiot, and he deserves to hear it."

Hermione shook her head, one slow, deliberate motion. "I wasn't going to say that, Draco," she said. "I simply . . . I don't how to respond to the things you said."

"You don't have to respond," he said, taking another drink. "I didn't say them to you."

Hermione crossed the room to stand in front of him. He watched her every step, calm grey eyes focused on her, revealing nothing.

Hermione was generally very good at knowing the right answer, knowing what to say. But she was at a loss. There was too much here. Too many revelations.

So she chose the quiet road, and only rose up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. And they stayed like that, locked together, only breathing.

And Hermione was surprised to find that the words were simply there.

"Thank you," she said, placing a light kiss on the bridge of his nose. "For giving me this." She brushed her lips across his closed eyes, first one, and then the other. "For giving me us." Her mouth traveled down to his cheekbones. "For showing me who you are. For learning how to change, how to decide who you want to be, and make yourself that." She ended back at his lips. "For thinking far too much of me."

He opened his eyes at that. Hermione's breath caught. He was generally willing to talk about how he felt, but he seldom showed it. Now he did. His grey eyes were so wet they shined blue. "I don't," he said. "I see you exactly as you are."

Hermione blinked back her own tears, and let her hand drift down to his, felt their fingers intertwine. "I love you," she breathed. Some things were precious enough to be whispered, even if there was no one to overhear them.

When his mouth closed over hers this time, it wasn't soft, and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry. He walked her back toward the bed, hand tangling in her hair. "Say it again," he said. His voice was raw, broken, gravel.

He didn't give her the time to say anything, just pressed his lips to hers again, continued moving her backwards. When her knees hit the bed, she scooted back onto it and took advantage of the slight distance to do as he'd asked. It only increased his fervor.

Hermione would have liked to match him, to let her brain switch off for a while. But she couldn't. She simply wasn't that patient. She shoved him onto his back and straddled him, which he didn't seem the least bit bothered by.

"You're supposed to say it back, you know," she said, hands on his chest, face close to his. He smiled, a slight, sweet smile. And he tucked her hair behind her ear, let his fingers trail down her cheek.

"I refuse to believe you don't know how much I love you. You've owned me since you walked into that classroom, start of term."

She shook her head. "Say the words, Draco. I want to hear them. None of the rest of it. Just the one-"

"I love you," he said, leaning up to kiss her.

She shook her head again. "Not while I'm talking, you prat. I want to hear it."

He laughed at that. "Are you ready?" he asked, rolling her under him. "Listening? Taking notes?" He dropped kisses along her jaw as he said it.

"Mhhmm."

"Good," he said. Then he pulled away. "Wait, what were we talking about?"

She slapped his chest as he laughed. "Draco Malfoy-"

He cut her off with a kiss. "I love you, Hermione Granger. Is that what you wanted to hear? I love you."

And then he kissed her again before she could make the appropriate response, but she didn't mind, because they had both had their say.

* * *

_Meanwhile, back at the party . . .  
_

"I'm not ashamed of anything," Ron muttered for the hundredth time.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "We know, Ron."

"Don't know what he's going on about," he mumbled. "Thinks I want to be like him. He's the last person I'd want to be like. Cowardly little ferret."

Harry leaned in closer. "Nobody thinks you want to be like Draco Malfoy, Ron."

"Malfoy does," Ron said, voice carrying.

Harry glanced around. "He was just winding you up, like he always is. Just let it go."

"Don't know what she sees in him," Ron said, slumping back into his chair.

Ginny gave him a cold look. "Perhaps it has something to do with the way he treats her."

"I treated her well," Ron said.

Even Harry looked annoyed by this. "You cheated on her," Ginny hissed. "And even when you weren't cheating on her, you were always making fun of her."

Harry gave her a look. "Ron makes jokes," Harry said. "That's who he is. She liked that about him."

Ginny glared back at him. "Ron thought she was a swot and treated her like one. Malfoy thinks she's brilliant and treats her like she is. _Why_ are we surprised she prefers Malfoy?"

"I didn't-"

"You made fun of her all the time for being a know-it-all." Ginny snapped.

Ron folded his arms. "She is a know-it-all."

"Yes," Ginny agreed. "And as her knowing as much as she did had an awful lot to do with why you two are still breathing, I, for one, am grateful for it."

"She knew we loved her," Harry said. "You can't act as though she didn't."

Ginny looked up at the sky and took a calming breath. "Yes, because Ron shagging everything that moved and you siding entirely with him would be a very clear sign of your commitment to your relationship with her. I can't imagine how she got the idea the two of you didn't care about her."

"I'm not saying I didn't make mistakes," Ron said, in a low voice. "But we could have worked it out."

"You weren't going to work it out," Harry said, aggravated. "I've told you that a million times. Hermione might be forgiving, but she was never going to forget that you betrayed her trust."

Ron slumped back in his chair and glared in the opposite direction. Ginny studied Harry silently.

"I didn't think she'd end up hating _me_ for it," Harry said quietly, looking down at his hands.

Ginny covered them with one of her own. "You could talk to her, try to fix things."

"She's dating Malfoy," Harry said. "I think we've done more than drifted apart."

Ginny took her hand away and sat silently, not knowing how to fix something she had had no part in breaking.

* * *

_A/N Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It's nice to know you guys liked the speech!  
_


	44. Wrong

Hermione lay tangled up with Draco, watching the sun slowly set out the window of his hotel room. She was fighting off sleep, and knew she would lose the battle if she didn't get up soon.

She rolled over and nuzzled into his neck. "I need to go soon," she mumbled.

His hand stroked down her back. Hermione closed her eyes. If they were this close, Draco always touched her. He trailed his fingers over her skin, or he pressed soft kisses against her, or he pulled her close. But he always touched her, always wanted contact.

"Not yet," he said, wrapping his arms around her.

She smiled against his skin. "My parents won't care that we've decided we're in love." She opened one eye and watched the smile spread slowly across his face.

"No?" he asked, but she knew he didn't care.

She boosted herself up and kissed him hard and fast on the lips. "Nope," she said, springing away. "They expect me home in an hour and a half. I should shower."

He folded his hands behind his head, watching her walk toward the bathroom. "We could shower together," he suggested.

She laughed. "I think not. I know what you mean when you say that."

* * *

An hour later they were both showered and ready to go. Draco had a habit of escorting her home. Hermione couldn't decide if it was because he was old-fashioned, because he wanted to extend their time together, or because he was genuinely concerned for her safety. Whatever the cause, he was consistent.

"Do you think they'll invite me in?" he asked, without much concern. Her parents didn't like him. She hadn't actually intended to introduce him so early in their relationship (and before she had a chance to mention he wasn't a bulling wanker anymore), but his insistence on walking her home had forced her hand.

Every time, her parents had the exact same response. They were perfectly civil and entirely unfriendly. They nodded to him, they called him by name, and they thanked him for having her home on time. They did not invite him in, they did not make small talk, and they never smiled.

Once the door was shut in his face, Hermione's mother would have a talk with her about choosing boys who treated her with respect. Hermione would say he did, her mother would scoff, and Hermione would storm off up to her room.

It was getting to be a tradition.

Something was off today, though. At first, Hermione thought it was simply the after-effects of their declarations. Draco tensed as they approached the house. His easy posture was replaced with a stiff back, a swiveling head. He let go of Hermione's hand and reached for his wand.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"Something's wrong," Draco said, staring around.

Hermione had her wand in her hand immediately. "Death Eaters?" she asked.

Draco shook his head. "No," he said simply.

They turned the last corner, finally on Hermione's street, and both broke into a run. Her house, seven lots down, was on fire.

Black smoke billowed up, and tongues of flame licked out of the downstairs windows. Hermione thought she would vomit.

"You stay here, find a way to counter the spells," Draco said, starting toward the door. Hermione never paused; she stayed in step with him, running toward her house, toward her parents. She prayed they were ok in there, hiding somewhere safe.

Draco grabbed her arm and swung her around. She nearly punched him.

"You can't keep me out!" she shouted. "Those are my parents. I can help them."

"Only if you _think_," he said, forcing her to look at him. "Use your wand, Hermione. Use your magic. Use some bloody sense. They would be out by now, if they could. There is some spell, locking everyone inside. I don't know what it is. I'll go inside," he said, looking back to the door. "I'll try to keep them safe. You figure out what the spell is and try to counter it, so we can get them out."

"I don't know what it is," Hermione said, tears falling as she watched the fire spread.

"You have to figure it out," Draco told her. "You've got the better brain for it." He glanced toward the house. "Just hurry."

Hermione nodded rapidly, pulling out her wand and immediately starting a few identification spells. She tried not to panic as she watched Draco run in through the front door. When she heard sirens in the distance, she moved around to the backyard, where her magic wouldn't be so obvious.

* * *

Inside, Draco tore through the house, keeping up a constant shield spell. He found her father upstairs in his office, asleep at the computer. Draco muttered "_enervate_", and with a quick wave of his wand had him awake again.

"What are you doing?" her father shouted, looking around.

"Where's your wife?" Draco asked, already starting out the door.

"What the hell have you done to our house?" Hermione's father continued shouting.

Draco ignored him and set about searching each of the rooms. He found Hermione's mother asleep on her bed. He woke her as well, and now had two panicked Grangers shouting at him.

"Hermione is outside," Draco said. "She's trying to counter the spell keeping us locked in here."

"What?" both parents screamed in a panic. They ran for the window and looked out at their daughter, who stood alone in the backyard, waving her wand and muttering furiously. All three turned at the sound of sirens.

"Idiot," Draco said to himself, and finally started trying to put the fire out with water. He pulled the two elder Grangers behind him and started casting every spell he knew that involved water. He heard the floor below their feet begin to creak, as the fire closed in on them.

He let the water spell drop for a moment and tried a bit of complex transfiguration that would turn several wood beams to stone, and hopefully prevent the house from collapsing. Then he aimed his wand and unleashed a wave of water over the fire. It gave them some breathing room.

"Draco," Hermione screamed from the grass below.

Draco leaned out the window and spotted her waving hands.

"Come out, please," she shouted. "You can." He couldn't hear the rest of what she said, be he guessed it was a mumbled prayer.

Draco looked back toward the door, which had been entirely engulfed in flames. He studied her parents. "Out the window it is," he said finally. "And let's hope none of your neighbors see."

"Be ready," he shouted down to her. He doubted she could hear him well enough for him to explain his plan, but he knew she was clever enough and quick enough to cushion them either way.

"You first, Mrs. Granger," he shouted. "I'm going to levitate you down."

He directed his wand at her. "_Wingardium_ _Leviosa_," he said, waving his wand. Hermione's mother floated up a few feet in the air, and he directed her toward the window. He leaned out, waited for Hermione's nod, and then levitated her mother through. The moment she was out, she dropped. The charm didn't work on people, so the best he could do was levitate her clothes. He kept up the charm as she dropped. Between it and whatever Hermione did to cushion her fall, Mrs. Granger landed harmlessly on her feet in the yard below.

Draco repeated the process with Mr. Granger, with equally good results. When his turn came, he had fewer options. He looked around, summoned the cat to himself, caught Hermione's attention, and simply jumped out. He bounced a bit more than her parents had, but was generally unharmed.

The moment she knew everyone had made it, Hermione collapsed into her mother's embrace. Her father wrapped his arms around both of them. Draco watched as firefighters came around the back of the house.

"Is anyone still inside?" one of them shouted, looking at the three dirty, smoke-stained people.

"No," Draco answered. "We all got out."

Medics came around next, running over to the four of them to examine any possible injuries. Draco met Hermione's eyes. Whatever conclusions the firefighters might come to, they both knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what had happened. A wizard had tried to kill Hermione and her family.


	45. Likely

The worst of the injuries was smoke-inhalation. And though it was nothing to be scoffed at, it hadn't been extreme enough to have caused serious problems for any of them. Once the medics had given them each the all-clear, the group had gone back to Draco's hotel.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger hadn't wanted to, but Hermione had told them – quite sternly – that they needed to come somewhere safe while she sorted out what had happened.

Now they sat in what Hermione thought of as the living room of the suite, at a beautiful old antique table. Her parents had noticed the 180 degree view despite their concern, but likely managed to put it in the negative column when it came to their evaluation of Draco.

"I thought Voldemort was dead," Mr. Granger said.

Hermione stifled a sigh. "He is. He's not the only wizard ever to be dangerous, though."

"We're quite aware of how dangerous wizards can be, thank you Hermione," Mrs. Granger said primly.

Her father cleared his throat. "Was it Death Eaters then?" he asked.

"Most likely," Hermione admitted. "Though I was under the impression most of them were rounded up."

"It wasn't Death Eaters," Draco said quietly. He hadn't missed the looks both her parents gave him, when Death Eaters had entered the conversation.

"Draco, just because you have changed doesn't mean everyone has," Hermione said. "We need to consider the fact that the most likely option is Death Eaters. Or former Death Eaters, if you would prefer the term."

The Grangers were regarding Draco with more and more suspicion.

"The only people we know for certain it wasn't is Death Eaters," Draco said. Hermione gave him a baffled look. "I put up a spell, after the first time you took me there, to keep anyone with a Dark Mark out. They can't get within half a mile of your home."

"How do you get in?" Hermione asked.

"I created the spell Hermione. I created the counter spell as well. But as I haven't told another living soul about it, I'm very certain no one else with a mark could get in," he said.

She studied him for a long time. "Are you that confident in the strength of the spell?"

He nodded. "Yes. They're common. We had one on our home, to keep everyone without the mark out. There was a similar one on the Astronomy Tower," he added quietly. "They're modeled after the Fidelus Charm, and only slightly less secure. It treats the Dark Mark as the Secret Keeper having told the location. Sort of. In this case, it treated anyone _without_ the Dark Mark as knowing the location."

"And you were concerned about the dangers of me putting the Fidelus Charm on the house!" Hermione said, annoyed.

He smiled. "I know this one better than you know that one."

"You created this one. Making up spells is always dangerous," she said, unable to prevent it coming out in a scolding tone.

Hermione's mother had had enough. "Can we get back to the problem at hand?" she said, slapping the table once for effect. "Obviously at least one of your spells wasn't as secure as you thought," she said, "since someone found us."

Hermione and Draco both went silent.

"It seems more likely that yours would have," Hermione began, trying not to insult him, "since the Fidelus Charm is nearly infallible."

"Unless you trust the wrong person."

"Oh," Hermione responded, stung. "And who would that be? You, Luna, or Dean?"

"Or Harry, or Ron, or Ginny, or anyone else in the Order or the DA?" he asked. "Basically all the people who might feel betrayed by you seeing me."

"I didn't tell everyone in the DA where my house was!" Hermione shouted.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "But I expect more than Luna, Dean, and I know."

Hermione looked away. "None of them would try to hurt my family."

"Do you think it seems more likely that a Death Eater broke through all of my protective spells, one of which is the sort it took the entire Order to break through together," Draco began, holding Hermione's eyes, "and then also managed to get the location of your house out of you? Or do you think it's more likely that someone on your side sees things a little too black and white and has decided you fraternizing with the enemy means you are the enemy?"

"You can't tell me you believe Ron or someone would-"

"No," Draco interrupted, "for all his faults, I don't think Weasley would ever try to physically hurt you. He might try to engineer a dangerous situation so he could come save you, but since he never showed up . . ." he trailed off.

"Then who?" Hermione asked.

Draco shrugged. "That's the point, isn't it? I have no idea. I don't know the Order or the DA. But I know they all suffered losses. History is littered with stories of never-ending feuds. My family has hurt a lot of people. If someone lost a loved one, and then saw you with me . . . I don't think it's out of the question to believe they might lash out."

"I still think it's more likely a Death Eater would have wanted to hurt me," Hermione said.

Draco nodded. "Much more likely. Which is why you and I both did everything we could to protect against it." He looked her dead in the eye. "Hermione, my protections still stand. Yours don't. Whoever attacked breached your spells, not mine. They had your trust, not my history."

"I know you are some big war hero, Hermione," her father broke in. "But shouldn't we call the authorities."

Hermione glanced at Draco.

"It's fine," he said. "They might take me in." He shook his head. "Let's be honest. Of course they'll take me in. But if they catch whoever did it," he finished with a shrug, "it's more than worth my time."

She looked over at her parents. "I'd like to bring you somewhere safe, first," she said.

They both stood up immediately. "No, you listen, Hermione Jean Granger," her mother started. "Just because we haven't got magic doesn't mean we can't take care of ourselves. If you want to put up protection spells, or enchantments, or whatever you have to," she said, gesturing vaguely toward Hermione and Draco, "you can do that."

"But you will not," her father finished, "under any circumstances, modify our memory and send us off to Australia again."

Hermione pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes to her lap. "No," she said. "Of course not." She looked at them both. "But I need to know you're safe. We could do a house in the country, or-"

"This seems just fine," her mother said, glancing around.

Hermione blinked and risked a looked at Draco, who smiled slightly.

"I'm probably not going to be using it," he said, with some amusement. "I can do the spell, teach you how it works. Add a few more while I'm at it." He watched her for a moment. "You won't be able to do the Fidelus Charm, though. This place has been around too long."

"Is there a way to modify your spell, so that we're the only ones who can get in?" she asked.

Draco considered the questions. "I suppose we could. Honestly, it would probably be easier that way, and more secure. We'd need something in common, though. A mark, a . . ." he laughed. "Family," he said. "You share the same blood. I can teach you how to do it for your family," he nodded at her parents, "their blood."

"Then you won't be able to get in," Hermione pointed out.

He shrugged. "I'll probably be in Azkaban for a while anyway."

"That's ridiculous. If they try to pin this on you, when you saved them-"

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "There's no if, love. You know who runs the auror department as well as I do. They're going to think it was me. With any luck, they'll check out some other people as well, but they're going to think it was me."

"They're stupid," Hermione mumbled.

Draco smiled at that. "No arguments there." He laced his fingers with her. "Thank you," he said. "For not doubting me."

She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, though her parents' presence made the whole scene just a bit uncomfortable.

"Alright, teach me your spell," she said, when she eased away.

And he did. Once she had mastered it, he and her father went down to the pub across the street. Hermione tried to work as fast as possibly, know they probably weren't becoming fast friends. But she was thorough. She made sure she did it exactly right.

She was just about to tell her mom they could go get the boys when she found her in Draco's bedroom, staring at a pair of Hermione's knickers on the floor.

"Mum," she said, pretending not to have seen what she was looking at. "We can go get the boys, now."

"I suppose I don't have to ask how serious this has gotten," her mother said.

Hermione sighed. "You would think, given that our lives are in danger, that this could take a backseat, at least for a while."

"Parenting never takes a backseat, Hermione," her mother said. She studied Hermione for a long moment. "You say he's good for you."

Hermione nodded. "Don't you think he is? My friends say they can tell the difference."

Her mother sighed, the exact sound Hermione always made. "I suppose," she said. "I would have preferred you chose someone who always treated you like a queen."

Hermione grinned. "I can't say I've met anyone that quite fits that description."

"Do you love him?" her mother asked.

"Yes," Hermione said simply.

"Well, then," Her mother said, sounding resigned. "I suppose we should give him a chance. Assuming he didn't try to kill us earlier."

"Why would he have saved you?" Hermione asked.

"That's a question. I suppose you knew you loved him before that?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. And I'd been shagging him before that as well. So there's not a lot to be gained, from his perspective, by you being in danger."

Her mother let out a slow breath. "Well then."

And they walked down to the pub to get the boys.


	46. Questions

The four of them went to the Ministry of Magic, rather that calling the aurors to them. They found it lightly staffed, given the holiday. It wasn't Easter, but it was near enough to have people off work.

A young auror Hermione hadn't seen before looked at her with awe, and Draco with suspicion. Not five minutes had passed before Harry, Ron, Neville, and Ginny had all appeared.

Ron raised his wand the second his spotted Draco. Hermione stepped in front of him.

"It would be helpful," she said, "if this situation could be handled by aurors more interested in catching whoever did this than persecuting my boyfriend."

"Seems to me they're one in the same," Ron said, wand still trained on Draco.

Hermione gave a harsh laugh. "Does it? So you haven't managed simple deduction yet, in your training. Why would Draco target my family and then save them?"

"Maybe he wants you to believe he's a hero instead of a coward," Ron suggested. "Seems likely to me."

"Ron, put your wand down," Ginny snapped.

"Oi! Some of us are professionals here," Ron said, glaring at Ginny.

"Then you might try acting like it, mate," Neville suggested under his breath.

"I'd like to speak with Kingsley," Hermione requested, with perfect dignity.

Ron laughed. "The Minister of Magic? Sorry, Hermione. You get us."

Harry gave him a look, and he finally lowered his wand. "We're in charge of any crime relating to Death Eaters," Harry said quietly. "It does fall under our jurisdiction."

"Who said it was relating to Death Eaters?" Hermione asked.

Everyone looked surprised.

Neville was the first to speak. "Was it not?" he asked.

"Draco put up a protection charm, that kept anyone with a Dark Mark from coming within a half mile of my home," Hermione explained. "We've checked it. It's still intact."

Ron snorted. "Or he put up a charm keeping everyone without a Dark Mark out."

"Which would have made it awfully hard for literally everyone in the neighborhood to be there, day in and day out," Hermione pointed out, irritated.

Harry cleared his throat. "Even if the spell works as he says it does," he said, and hurried on before Hermione could interrupt, "it's still possible someone got around it."

Draco inclined his head. "And feel free to investigate that possibility. We just ask that you look into every potential threat."

Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Ron spoke. "One of you should say it, because obviously I'm going to be assaulted if I do." He glowered at Harry and Neville.

Neville sighed. "We're going to need to ask Draco some questions," he said.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, though she had no idea what she meant to say, but stopped when she felt Draco's hand warm on the small of her back.

"It's fine, love," he murmured, stepping in front of her and turning to face her. "They haven't mentioned Azkaban yet, that's something." He laid his hands on her cheeks and kissed her forehead. "I'll be fine. Just stay safe. And remember what I said. Revenge can make people do horrible things, things that are out of character. Be careful, be on your guard, and don't let your parents out of your sight. When you're finished here, go back to the room and _stay_ _safe_."

"I'm sorry this is happening," she whispered, kissing him quickly.

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and gave her a reassuring smile. It was a bit tight, perhaps, but she appreciated the effort.

"I love you," he whispered. Then he squeezed her hand and stepped toward the aurors she once counted as her closest friends.

"I love you too," she said in a carrying voice, back straight, eyes steady. She ignored the myriad reactions from the onlookers. She backed up and stood with her parents as Neville escorted Draco to an interrogation room. Ron and Harry both turned away to follow. She watched them all until they were out of sight.

Harry returned moments later. Hermione gathered there had been some sort of dispute, as to who would question Draco and who would interview Hermione and her parents. She guessed that Ron demanded to question Draco, Neville stayed behind to make sure he behaved, and Harry got the dubious pleasure of dealing with a pissed off Hermione. She was grateful to Neville for staying, if he had. She thought she could count on him more than Harry to stand up to Ron, if the need arose. And she could bet it would.

"I'll need to put you in separate rooms," Harry said, not really looking at Hermione, "to interview you."

"No."

He met her eyes then. "What?"

"No," she repeated. "Someone just nearly killed my parents. They stay with me. If you want to do your little eavesdropping spell, feel free. But you aren't putting them somewhere where I can't keep them safe."

He gave in with more grace than she would have expected. He interviewed them each in turn, and he did use the spell – though he claimed it was more for the accuracy of the interview than out of any worry they were hiding anything.

They each related the events as they remembered them, and then Harry told Hermione they could go. He offered protection – but remembering what Draco had said – she politely declined.

When they went back out into the lobby, Ginny was waiting.

"Are you ok?" she asked, folding Hermione into a hug. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how terrifying that was."

"The fire or the interview?" Hermione asked.

Ginny gave her a weak smile. "The fire," she said.

"They're alright," Hermione responded, glancing over at her parents. "That's all that matters."

Ginny nodded. "And you're very sure Draco-"

"I swear if one more person-"

Ginny waved her to a stop. "I just wanted to know if you were certain. I'll do everything I can to make sure they investigate every angle, not just him. But I wanted to know you were absolutely positive you could trust him."

"It doesn't make sense to suspect him, Ginny. He doesn't have any motivation. If he wanted to impress me, he didn't need to. He already had me. We were good. He wouldn't have risked messing it up. And if he wanted to hurt me, he would have delayed me. He was with me beforehand. It wasn't him, Ginny."

"Who does he think it was?" she asked, glancing over at Harry, who was speaking quietly with Hermione's parents.

"Harry? Draco, I'm sure."

Ginny shook her head. "I meant Draco. Who does Draco think it was?"

"He doesn't know," Hermione whispered. "He's just sure it wasn't a Death Eater, because of his spell. He thinks," Hermione glanced around, unsure. "He thinks it was someone connected to the DA or the Order, angry with me for dating him. He thinks they could see it as a betrayal."

"I can't imagine anyone doing that though! Your parents!" Ginny shook her head.

"I know," she said. "That's how I feel. But he's right. I did all the necessary protection spells, but I trust a lot of people. And we saw it well enough in the war, what fear and grief can drive a person to."

Ginny squeeze her hand. "We'll figure out who it was. Do you want to come to the Burrow?"

Hermione shook her head. "Thank you. Really. But no. I think we've got a pretty safe place set up."

Ginny nodded, and Hermione looked over to her parents, who came to join her.

"We'll do everything we can, Hermione," Harry said.

She nodded. "Thank you." She glanced back the way they had come, back where Draco sat somewhere, locked in a room, being interrogated. "He didn't do it, Harry. If you really want to do everything you can, start looking elsewhere."


	47. Good Cop Bad Cop

"You expect us to believe," Ron was saying, leaning in close to Draco's face, "that you had nothing to do with this." He shoved off the table and paced the room. "And not just that. No, you want us to believe that no Death Eaters had _any_ _part_. Because Death Eaters are the most trustworthy people out there. Not dangerous at all." He tried to share an amused look with Neville, but the other boy wasn't having it.

"I believe Death Eaters are dangerous," Draco said calmly, quietly. "That's why I set up protections against them. They remain intact, which means it wasn't a Death Eater."

"You could get through."

Draco sighed. "Yes. I could. Most people don't cast spells unless they know the counterspell. It's wizarding 101." When both boys looked confused, he muttered, "so to speak," under his breath.

"Who do you think did it?" Neville asked.

"I don't know," Draco said. "If I knew, it's unlikely they would still be breathing."

"Murder is still a crime, you know!" Ron shouted.

Draco leaned forward. "If I thought someone was trying to kill Hermione, I would kill them without a second thought. If you threw me into Azkaban for it, I would not regret it for a moment. Not if I rotted in there for the rest of my life."

Neville cleared his throat. "Let's try to remain focused on the actual crime that was committed, not imaginary ones, shall we gentlemen?" He looked back at Draco. "Are you saying you have no suggestions, no one you've seen act suspiciously, no one you know of who wants to hurt Hermione?"

"The list of people who seem to want to hurt Hermione is disturbingly long. It consists of almost all Death Eaters, most purebloods, anyone feeling betrayed by her relationship with me, and an odd assortment of others who dislike her for one reason or another."

"And, let's see, the most violent of that lots is the DEATH EATERS," Ron shouted.

Neville ignored him. "Have many people seemed to feel she had betrayed them by dating you?" he asked.

Draco slid a look toward Ron. "Not overtly, for the most part. There was a lot of speculation, at school. We hadn't actually intended to tell anyone we were together yet. Luna didn't mention it was such a large gathering."

Neville smiled slightly. "I see. And, at the party, did anyone react particularly badly." He glanced at Ron. "Present company excluded."

"No," Draco said. "A lot of people who would usually be friendly avoided her, but no one came up and threatened her life."

"You know who did threaten her life?" Ron asked. "DEATH EATERS!" and he slammed his hand down on the table.

"If you aren't going to help," Neville said quietly, "you should leave."

Ron glared at him and stomped off to the corner. He leaned against the wall, folded his arm across his chest, and glared at Draco.

"Did anyone seem particularly upset?" Neville asked.

Draco shook his head. "Not that I noticed."

"Were you looking for it?" Neville asked.

"Yes," Draco said simply.

Neville studied him. "Was she?"

"No," Draco said. "She trusts you all."

"And you don't?" Neville asked.

Draco shrugged. "Fighting on the opposite side of people in a war doesn't usually build a great deal of trust."

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Neville silenced him with a look.

"Were you concerned, at the party?" Neville asked. "What I mean to say is, have you had reason to worry about her?"

"Hermione is reason to worry all on her own," Draco muttered. "But no, not really. She keeps to herself, mostly, at school. She's close to Dean and Luna, friendly enough with Ginny. Beyond that, she spends most of her time with me. She doesn't really interact with anyone else, if she can avoid it."

"That doesn't sound like Hermione," Ron said. He sounded antagonistic, but not openly hostile.

Draco turned cold eyes on him. "Did you think the war wouldn't have had an impact on her?"

Ron pushed off the wall and started toward Draco. Neville intercepted him. "Let's not, shall we?" he said quietly to Ron, who returned mutinously to his post.

"She mentioned the summer had been rough. And that you, Dean, and Luna were particularly observant. That it worked out to her advantage, that particular trait," Neville said.

Draco met his eyes. "Did she?"

Neville nodded. "She did. I'm wondering if it can be of any help here. If there was anything you saw, anything you observed, that made you worried. It sounds like you didn't trust everyone at the party, at the school. I'm wondering why."

Draco looked down at his hands. "I wish I had something to give you." He met Neville's eyes. "But mostly, I just don't trust anyone. There was nothing in particular that bothered me. I knew there was bound to be some sort of blowback," he said, dropping his eyes again. "But I thought it would be social. If I thought she was in danger . . ." he shook his head, trailing off. "I don't trust you guys," he said, "but it hadn't occurred to me anyone on your side might hurt her. I would have been more thorough, when I added to her protections. Merlin, I would have tried to keep all wizards out and just taught her the counter." He shook his head, pressed the tips of his fingers together.

"You seem very sure it was one of us," Neville said, ignoring Ron's mutterings.

Draco looked up. "She had done the Fidelus Charm. The only people that could have found her house were people she trusted. Or, I suppose, people the people she trusted trusted." He blinked. "That probably wasn't particularly clear," he said, folding his hands and leaning forward. "I meant-"

Neville cut him off. "I understand."

"If I were you," Draco continued. "I would find out every person Hermione told the location of her house. And then I would interview them and find out whether they were acting odd, or whether anyone they knew was acting suspicious."

Neville nodded. "That'll be our next step."

"Our next step should be rounding up every person with a Dark Mark," Ron cried from the corner.

"Most of them are already in prison," Neville said, holding back a sigh. "And those that aren't are out because they weren't responsible for any serious acts of violence. And, aside from all that, Hermione checked the spell and found it intact."

"He could have put it up again," Ron said.

Neville shot him an annoyed look. "He surrendered his wand without hesitation. We'll examine it. If it was going to produce any spells of protection, he wouldn't have done so."

"I still think we need to check," Ron said quietly.

Neville nodded. "I saw to it that it was sent up for examination."

"Good," Ron said, glaring at Draco again.


	48. Off

Harry, Ron, and Neville set about interviewing everyone Hermione said she had told her address to. It was an odd situation, since Harry and Ron were among the people listed.

Neville interviewed them both, and seriously considered suggesting they remove themselves from the case. He knew they wouldn't though, so instead he simply paid extra attention. Neither was acting out of character. And, however angry Ron was, Neville couldn't see him attacking Hermione or her family.

Neville also took the interviews for the rest of the Weasley clan, since they may have overheard her telling Ron. Ginny had been told by Hermione directly, but the rest seemed in the dark. Neville still interviewed each of them, in case Ron had passed along any other information about Hermione, and how she might have protected her parents and their home.

They had heard bits and pieces, but had all kept the information close, not wanting to betray Hermione's trust. Neville appreciated that they, at least, made a point of showing her some loyalty.

The biggest headache for Neville was trying to sort out whether Ron had told any of his short-lived girlfriends anything about Hermione's home. Ron couldn't have given them the exact location, but he might have been able to give general information, and he certainly was capable of discussing what precautions Hermione had taken.

Neville was relieved to find that the answer seemed to be no. Ron seemed less sure the further in the past the relationship was, but he had been absolutely certain he hadn't mentioned anything to Cecily Archelaus, which had been Neville's primary concern.

He knew the Archelaus family's attitude toward muggleborns, even if Ron didn't bother to get to know his dates that well. He didn't cross her off the list of suspects, but he didn't move her up, either.

* * *

While Neville conducted his interviews, Harry went off to study the damage to the house, and the protection spells around it.

After that, Harry and Ron apparated back to Luna's house, and found that it had cleared out. He asked Dean for a moment of his time, and the two went out to the grounds.

"I assume you know why I'm here," Harry began.

Dean nodded. "She told me her address. You're probably talking to everyone who could have gotten in."

Harry nodded. "Obviously I know where you were when the crime was committed. I'm here first to find out if you told anyone anything about the spells Hermione and Malfoy had up around the house."

"I didn't," Dean responded immediately.

Harry gave him a serious look. "We aren't going to judge you, if you did. We just need to know."

Dean met his eyes. "I didn't. Hermione doesn't like people talking about her. I don't talk about her. She didn't want people to know where her parents were, so they would stay safe. Not talking about any precautions she took falls into that category, to my mind. I didn't tell anyone. It's that simple."

Harry nodded. "Good, then. That makes our life simpler too." He ignored Dean's hostile look. "Can you tell me if you've noticed anyone behaving strangely around Hermione, anyone who might want to hurt her?"

"Do you mean aside from you and Ron?" Dean asked.

"Neither of us would ever hurt her."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You have an interesting definition of the word, 'hurt.' 'Neither' and 'ever' as well, while we're at it."

"The end of a relationship is very different from attempted murder. We're not talking about hurt feelings here, Dean," Harry said.

Dean shook his head. "You're surprisingly willing to write off the damage you two did, for someone who pretends to care about her. I can't imagine what she's thinking, letting two people who've made it clear they don't give a damn about her run this investigation. Old habits, I guess."

"We care about Hermione," Harry said, through clenched teeth. "And we're going to find who did this."

"Yeah?" Dean asked. "Just out of curiosity, how much time did you waste assuming it was Draco?"

"Draco is a legitimate suspect," Harry said, trying to stay calm.

Dean snorted. "Right."

"If you want to talk about wasting time," Harry ground out, voice rising.

"No, I haven't seen anyone acting odd around Hermione, or seeming to want to hurt her. Except you and Ron. Everyone else is either friends with her or avoids her."

"The ones who avoid her, do they seem hostile?" Harry asked.

"Not really. Mostly they seem awkward or scared."

"Scared?" Harry repeated. "How so?"

Dean pretended to think it over. "I dunno, Harry. Maybe it's that someone who seemed to always love studying and being a prefect showed up to school in September looking thin as a rail, half-dead, and indifferent to everything around her."

Harry had no response. He cleared his throat. "That scared them?"

"Most of the time, when you talk to someone you've known for years, you have a pretty good idea how they're going to react. When all the sudden they look dead inside, it isn't as easy to guess. She did a lot of walking away from people who talked to her, without even realizing it, I think. It makes people nervous."

"Was she really that bad?" Harry asked.

Dean looked as though he thought spitting in Harry's face was a fair response.

Harry cleared his throat again. "Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?"

"No," Dean said.

Harry nodded. "Thank you for your time."

"Fuck off," was Dean's only response.


	49. Love Good

Inside, Ron was having a great deal more luck with Luna, while her father shuffled around in the background, offering to make tea or get them something to eat.

Ron sat in a great, overstuffed chair. "First off, Luna, we need to know if you told anyone about Hermione's home. Specifically the spells protecting it."

"No," Luna answered, shaking her head serenely. "Dean knows, but Hermione told him herself."

Ron nodded. "You're sure you didn't mention it to anyone?"

Luna nodded again. "Quite certain," she said, leaning forward, her eyes huge and sincere. "Hermione was very serious when she told me about her house. She gave me the little sheet of paper, and I had no idea what it was. So then she explained about the charm, and that she only told a few people."

"Why did she say she was telling you?" Ron asked.

Luna took a delighted breath. "It was just a few days ago. She came over at the start of vacation, just to talk." Luna smiled, as though no one had come over just to talk before. "She wanted me to be able to come visit her, if I ever wanted to."

"Have you been to visit her?" Ron asked.

Luna shook her head. "Not yet. I suppose there isn't much of her house left to visit now," she added, looking down. "It's so sad. I can't imagine who would ever want to hurt her, or her parents. She's such a lovely person."

"She's a gem alright," Ron muttered.

"She's very kind," Luna said, as close to angry as Ron had ever heard her. "And a very good friend. You could learn a lot from her."

"Right," Ron said. "Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?"

"No. That's why I said I couldn't imagine who would ever want to hurt her," she said, tilting her head to the side. "I truly can't. The Death Eaters, I suppose. I can't think of anyone else who would be horrible enough to attack her."

Ron nodded. "Exactly." Then he said goodbye to Luna and her father and set about rounding up every Death Eater he could find.

* * *

Draco was released, much to Ron's fury, because there was absolutely no evidence to suggest he had done anything wrong, and quite a bit to support his innocence.

The moment he was away from the Ministry, he pulled out his phone. He had a text message from Hermione and two missed calls from her. He was glad he'd gotten a cell phone the first day of vacation. He had wanted it for the internet, the music, and the camera. But it turned out the original intended use was handy as well.

Having no apparation point arranged ahead of time, Draco decided it was better to travel the muggle way. The last thing he needed was to get taken in for breaching the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. He flagged down a cab, told them the hotel's name, and called Hermione.

"Are you alright?" she asked immediately. He breathed a sigh of relief. If that was her first question, it meant she and her family were fine.

"I'm ok," he said. "They let me go. Apparently there was no evidence I had done anything wrong."

"Of course not," Hermione said.

"And you three are ok?" Draco asked, needing the reassurance.

"We're fine. I feel ridiculous hiding in here. I should be out there trying to figure out who did this. Harry and Ron are going to spend all their time looking in the wrong direction."

"They're meant to be pretty good, if you believe the papers. Well, Potter anyway," Draco said, watching the cab driver pull in near the hotel.

He paid the cabbie and climbed out, heading straight toward the door.

"I hope so," Hermione said. "When will I see you?"

Draco slowed down, staring at something unexpected in the lobby. "Soon," he said. "I'll call you again in a few minutes."

He hung up and walked over to a familiar face.

"Luna?" he said

She turned to face him, wand in her hand, concealed by a bulky sweatshirt.


	50. Breaking

"Draco!" Luna cried, and dove into his arms. "I'm so glad to see you. I can't find her. I know she's here, but I can't find her."

Draco patted her on the shoulders. "Calm down, Luna. Take a breath." He steered her toward a chair and then crouched down in front of her where she sat. "Why are you looking for her?"

"It was my dad," she said. "I think it was my daddy," and she burst into tears.

Draco scanned the lobby looking for the old man. "Luna, is he here?" he asked.

Luna shook her head, still sniffling and weeping.

"Why do you think it was him, Luna?" Draco asked.

"I didn't think it," Luna said, voice breaking. "I didn't think it at all. But he was strange, just a little strange, when Ron was interviewing me. He was listening. And then, after, he was . . ." She covered her face with her hands, crying harder. "He was just wrong. Something was wrong about him. And so I thought about the questions Ron asked, about the secret, about her telling me. And I remembered that I read it out loud. The slip of paper she gave me. And that he could have been listening."

Draco slipped his phone out of his pocket and began texting Hermione.

Don't trust X. Lovegood.

Not sure it's him,

but just to be safe.

"Was he listening, Luna?" Draco said, returning his attention to the blond in front of him.

She nodded.

"How do you know?" he asked, keeping an eye trained on the door. He held his wand in his hand, just to be safe.

"I went up to his study, and looked around. I thought I was being stupid," Luna said, trying to talk through her tears, "that he could never have done it. But there was a book, dark magic, with a bookmark in it," she said, choking on the words, on her tears, "at a spell for trapping people in a house or a room."

Draco closed his eyes. "Did you talk to him?"

Luna covered her face with her hands, nodding. "He said she was worse than you, because she had pretended to be my friend, but then she chose you instead. After your family kept me there."

Draco felt his own eyes fill. "I'm so sorry, Luna."

She shook her head. "You didn't do it," she said. "And what he did is even worse," she continued, starting to weep again. "I told him that. And we fought. And he left. I don't know where he is."

Draco felt panic snake up his spine. "Did he know I was staying here?" he asked. "Did he know she'd been here?"

"I don't know," Luna said, trying to get control of herself. "I don't think I said it, but I never thought of him listening. I might have. Dean was over. We might have talked about it. I can't remember. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She broke again, and crumbled in on herself, sobbing.

"Ok," Draco said, trying to remain calm. He pulled out his phone and called Hermione first.

"What is it?" Hermione answered, not bothering with a conventional hello. "It can't have been Mr. Lovegood."

"It was," Draco said. "Luna confronted him."

Hermione was silent. "Is he in custody?" she asked finally.

"No," Draco said, stroking a hand through Luna's hair as she wept quietly, heartbreakingly. "She said they fought, and he left. She doesn't know where he is." He took a breath. "And, Hermione? He might know where you are. She doesn't remember if she mentioned it, if he could have heard."

"Ok," Hermione said, and he could tell she was striving for calm. "We should leave then, go somewhere more secure."

"He's a wizard, Hermione. He could be here now," he glanced around the lobby. "He could have used polyjuice potion, or a clever disguise, or an invisibility spell."

"You're here?" Hermione screeched. "You need to get out. He might go after you, if he can't get me."

"I'm with Luna. I doubt he wants her to see him murder anyone. And I know he wouldn't want her to get hurt. We're going to stay right here in the building, so if he thinks to get at you by burning the whole thing down," Luna's bawling increased, "he won't be willing to." He patted Luna's head. "He won't try anything, Luna," he said, angling the phone away from his mouth slightly. "We'll keep her safe, you and I."

"Oh, poor Luna," Hermione breathed.

"Yeah," Draco said. "Listen, I'm going to . . . I was going to say call Potter, but that won't work, will it?" He shook his head. "So, Hermione, use that clever head of yours. How can I tell Potter it was Luna's father without having to leave you here unprotected?"

"You should go-"

"Hermione. I am not leaving. Think of something else," he said, scanning the lobby and trying to soothe Luna at the same time.

"I'll send a patronus," she said after a moment. "Stay on the line. I'm just going to set my phone down, while I do it."

"Good, yes. Please do."

Luna looked up at him, eyes puffy and red, face tear-streaked. "Please tell me they aren't going to kill him," she said quietly, and nearly broke his heart.

"No, love," Draco said. "We'll try to get him to surrender."

She drew in a ragged breath.

"Listen, though," Draco continued. "We're going to need your help. You can help us find him, talk to him." He laid a hand on her cheek. "We need you to be brave, to be strong. You can do that, can't you?"

She nodded and sniffled.

"Draco?" Hermione's voice called out of the phone.

"Did you send it?" he asked, eyes on Luna.

"Yes. Hopefully they'll come soon." There was a pause. "Do you see anything suspicious?"

Draco glanced around again. "I don't see him, but there are plenty of people who could be him in disguise."

"Be careful, please," Hermione pleaded.

"We will be," Draco said, as Luna gripped his hand. "We should call Dean," he suggested. Luna nodded rapidly.

"Ok," Hermione said. "I'll do it. You're in the lobby?"

"Yeah."

The line went dead for a couple of minutes, and Draco assured Luna Dean would be there soon.

"I don't understand why he would do this." Luna said quietly. "He's never hurt anyone."

Draco squeezed her hand. "He's a father. Death Eaters kidnapped his daughter and held her prisoner. And then someone she trusts – someone she considers a friend – starts dating one of them. Of course he's upset."

"He tried to kill her! He tried to kill her whole family. That isn't just upset," she said, trying valiantly not to fall back to weeping.

"I bet having your child threatened like that would make anyone a little crazy," Draco said quietly.

"It doesn't excuse it," she said, voice breaking again.

"No," he said. "Nothing excuses the bad choices we make."

He looked over as Harry, Ron, Neville, and a group of half a dozen other people rushed through the door. They scanned the lobby, spotted Draco and Luna, and came straight for them.

"Luna," Harry said, taking the lead. "Hermione said it was your father. Are you quite sure?"

Luna nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

"Is he here?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Luna said.

"Do you know anywhere else he might have gone?" Draco asked. Luna focused on him again, seeming relieved not to be looking at the group of aurors.

"They're not going to kill him, are they?" she asked again.

Draco looked over at Harry. "They'll try to get him to surrender, right Potter?" Harry nodded slowly.

"Do you know where else he might be Luna?"

"We need to get Hermione out of here first," Ron cut it. "Once she's safe we can go after Lovegood."

Draco studied the strangers in the group. "She's safe now," he said. "No one can get to her. We just need to catch Xenophilius."

He heard a tinny voice shouting his name and looked down at his phone.

"Merlin," he said, bringing the phone back to her ear. "I'm sorry. The aurors showed up. I forgot you were still on the line."

"Oh, God, I thought something had happened," Hermione said. "What are they doing? Should I come down?"

"It's up to you, I guess. But I think you're probably safer up there. If he's here somewhere, once you come out, he can get at you." He looked at Luna. "We don't want that to happen. Right now, he hasn't hurt anyone. We want to keep it that way." He sighed. "Not to mention that I'd really rather you stay out of danger."

Luna waved him forward. "I have an idea," she whispered in his ear.


End file.
